


Ladder to the Stars

by purplehairedwonder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Post Season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplehairedwonder/pseuds/purplehairedwonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_ And you have your choices _  
_ And these are what make man great _  
_ His ladder to the stars _ __

_ But you are not alone in this _  
_ And you are not alone in this _  
_ As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand _  
_ Hold your hand _ _  
_

**\-- Mumford & Sons, “Timshel” **   


“I’m your new God. A better one. And you will bow down and profess your love unto me, your Lord, or I shall destroy you.”

All the air left Dean’s lungs at those words, mind going completely blank. Sam’s eye caught his and reflected the fear and helplessness Dean was feeling. The words were completely ridiculous but…But he’d seen what Cas had just done to Raphael, splattering him with a snap like he was freaking Lucifer on steroids and Raphael had been an insect. He could feel the air practically humming around Cas. He was clearly drunk on the power, overwhelmed by the monster-fueled nukes within him. But Cas also had the mojo to back up his talk.

_ Oh, we are so screwed. _

Cas looked between the three men. “So, what will it be?”

Bobby looked shell-shocked at Cas’ words and was at a complete loss as to what to do when Dean glanced in his direction. Dean turned back to Sam and blinked in surprise at his brother’s look.

_ No _ , it said.

_ But Sam— _ __

_ No. After everything we’ve been through? _

It went against every fiber of Dean’s being to even consider bowing, but he was willing to shove his pride away for the sake of his brother and surrogate father. 

_ You sure? _ __

Exasperation crept into Sam’s look at that. _Dean._

Dean might have laughed at the bitch-eye if things weren’t so screwed up. He glanced over at Bobby, who’d watched the silent exchange, and shook his head minutely. Bobby gave a curt nod, ready to back them up as always.

The exchange had been brief and Cas stood, waiting for their answer with what he clearly thought was benevolent patience.

Dean turned his full attention to the angel and swallowed before speaking. “No.”

Cas titled his head at that. “No?”

“No,” Sam echoed. He was clearly trying to be firm in his tone but his voice shook from his body’s trembling. Even then, Sam’s voice was music to Dean’s ears; only a few hours earlier he hadn’t known if he’d ever hear it again.

“No,” Bobby agreed.    


There was fear underlying his gruff voice, but Bobby had made his choice throwing his cards in with the Winchesters and would stick with it, come what may. A brief burst of affection for the older man rushed through Dean before he looked back at Cas.    


He half expected the angel—god, whatever he was now—to raise a hand a hand and explode all three of them on the spot like he had Raphael, but he didn’t. Instead, he watched them curiously, like an owner wondering what his pet was thinking.   


“I am…sorry to hear that,” Cas said at long last.   


Somehow Dean doubted that but he thought better of voicing that. “So now what, Cas? Kill us?”   


Cas frowned as though the question had taken him by surprise. “Kill you? But there would be no point in that.”   


“Y’said you’d destroy us,” Bobby pointed out.   


Cas’ patient smile returned. “There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn’t that right, Sam?”   


Sam flinched but didn’t say anything and Dean’s stomach clenched. He didn’t like where this was going.   


“No, I would not kill you. You three have proven most useful,” Cas said. “And I have never wanted your sacrifices to be in vain. But you _will_ serve me.” It was a statement of fact as far as the angel was concerned.   


“We said no, Cas. Free will, remember?” Dean growled, mind briefly going back to motel room where he and Sam had drunk to their beleaguered team while Castiel lay unconscious on a bed.   


That angel, their friend, was nowhere to be found. This Castiel shook his head, that alien smile never leaving his face. “Then you will just have to learn what happens when you disobey.”   


“Do whatever you’re gonna do, but the answer’ll stay the same,” Dean replied. They weren’t going to play into Cas’ delusions no matter what. They needed a way out, but this wasn’t it.   


“You know who else didn’t obey?” Cas asked, inclining his head in Sam’s direction. “Lucifer.”   


Sam went completely still, his breath catching in his throat and eyes going wide, all traces of his determination from moments before gone. Dean felt his blood run cold.   


“You remember Hell, Dean. But you can’t imagine the Cage. Can he, Sam?”   


Sam lost the little color he had left, looking paler than any ghost they had ever wasted. “No. No,” he muttered brokenly, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. Or maybe against the cold of Lucifer’s memory, Dean thought as he was rooted to the spot, helplessly watching his brother struggle against the brutal, horrific memories.   


“You will bow or you will learn what God does to those who disobey Him.”   


Sam let out a whimper—a fucking whimper—and something snapped inside Dean. For a brief moment, he saw red in his fury and what the angel had done to his brother, what he had subjected him to for the sake of a goddamn distraction.    


“Screw you, Cas,” he hissed, his protective instincts raging within against the threat to Sam.   


“If that’s your answer…” Cas said, the briefest hint of regret crossing his face only to disappear faster than it had appeared. He raised his hand. Dean locked eyes with his brother and the snap echoed through his ears.   


And then they weren’t in the warehouse any longer. Dean blinked and looked around with a frown. Bobby and Cas were gone and he and Sam were standing in a cavernous room with crimson tapestries lining the walls.   


“Where the—” Dean trailed off when he saw Sam looking around in wide-eyed terror. “Sam?”   


“No, no, no,” his brother moaned, hands flexing violently at his sides. “No, no.”   


“Sammy?”    


Sam slowly turned to look at Dean. “He can make it look however he wants,” he whispered. “It’s his domain.”   


Dean was pretty sure he knew what his brother was talking about but had to be sure. He had to know if Cas had gone as far as he suspected. “Who, Sammy?” he whispered, suddenly not sure he could bear to hear the answer.   


“What do we have here?” a familiar voice filled the room and a wave of nausea washed over Dean. Footsteps echoed harshly through his ears as a dark figure approached.    


Dean’s mouth went dry the closer the figure came. Just as he thought he might be able to make out the figure’s face, Sam let out of muffled yelp. Dean whirled to see Sam strapped down to that godforsaken rack. His brother’s eyes were wild in fear, memories coming to life.   


Dean made to step toward Sam only to be slammed violently against the far wall. His vision blurred as the breath left his lungs. He blinked a few times and coughed painfully. When his vision cleared, his eyes widened and he inhaled sharply. His father’s younger form stood next to him, watching him curiously.   


“Michael,” Dean managed to rasp out.   


“Hello, Dean,” the archangel greeted. Terror flooded through Dean’s veins and he tried to push away from the wall only to find himself immobilized. He couldn’t find room in that fear to be angry at the form the angel had taken. Michael gave him a rueful smile. “Can’t have you interfering.”   


Dean’s eyes narrowed at that. “With what?”   


Michael simply inclined his head and Dean looked over to see Sam thrashing against the straps holding him down. _Oh god, Sammy…_   


The room suddenly went cold and Sam stopped struggling, his entire posture deflating in defeat. Dean opened his mouth, but shut it when he saw _him_ standing at his brother’s side, using the same form he’d worn before taking over Sam in Detroit.   


“Well, well. The prodigal son returns,” Lucifer said, running a finger down the side of Sam’s face, leaving what looked like a bloody trail in its wake. Sam jerked away weakly. “And he brought company.”    


The Devil looked up, something indefinable moving behind his eyes that gave Dean the chills. “Hello Dean.”   


“Lucifer,” Dean gritted out. “Leave him alone.”   


“And why would I do that?” Lucifer asked with a cold smile. “Your brother and I, we’d gotten so very close over the years before he was taken away from us.” He looked down at Sam and put a hand on his shoulder in a sick mockery of support. Sam flinched.   


“And now here you are again, Sam. Fate won’t keep us apart for long. MFEO, remember?”   


“It’s not fate,” Dean retorted. Fate was a bitch but she wasn’t this cruel. “It was—” He shut his mouth as he realized what he was saying.   


Lucifer looked up, a smile playing at his lips. “What, Dean?”   


Dean looked away quickly. “Nothing.”   


“Whatever it was, it brought us back together,” Lucifer said, looking back down at Sam with what Dean, if he hadn’t known better, would have called fondness. “We’ve missed you, Sam. It’s been so _boring_ since you were taken from us.”   


Sam was trembling again under the Devil’s eye; Dean could hear the leather of the straps creaking against his brother’s quaking. Lucifer rested the palm of his hand on Sam’s cheek. Sam cried out and when Lucifer removed his hand, Dean hissed; Sam’s cheek looked bloody and raw.   


“Full-blooded Winchesters are clearly made of more than a half Winchester,” Lucifer commented idly, taking his other hand from Sam’s shoulder. There was a bloody patch seeping through Sam’s shirt and Dean ground his teeth.   


Sam stilled at those words, ignoring his wounds like Dean could not. “Where’s Adam?” he demanded, making eye contact with Lucifer for the first time.   


“Indisposed,” Michael replied in a bored tone.   


That didn’t sound good. Guilt suddenly bit at Dean’s insides at the thought of his young half-brother, pulled from Heaven only to be tricked into becoming Michael’s vessel when Dean himself refused and was pulled into the lowest pit of Hell for the crime of having Winchester blood. Dean had been so concerned about Sam’s soul being left in the Pit that he’d barely spared a thought for Adam, especially after Death had made him choose between his brothers’ souls.   


Dean’s big brother failures were just stacking up, one after another, all over again.   


“You son of a bitch,” Sam hissed, jerking violently against his bonds, anger overtaking his fear. “We had a deal. We had a deal!”   


_ A deal? _   


“That deal was broken the moment you left, Sammy,” Lucifer replied. Sam looked as though he’d been struck. “You wanted to act as a shield for your half-brother. You can’t do that when you’re not present, now can you? It’s all in the fine print.”   


Sam slumped back against the rack at Lucifer’s words, features drawn and his mouth silently forming the word “No” over and over. His chin drooped and his hair fell across his face.   


“Shh,” Lucifer cooed, brushing Sam’s bangs away from his eyes. Sam moaned and screwed his eyes shut, turning away from the contact. “It’ll all be alright, Sam. Now that you’re back.”   


The pained sounds his brother was making at even Lucifer’s slightest touch raced through Dean’s entire body like electric currents, sharp and painful.    


When Lucifer pulled his hand back, the remainder of Sam’s face was covered in blood and flayed skin.   


_ “Do you know what your brother’s soul felt like when I touched it? Like it had been skinned alive, Dean.” _   


Cas’ words from those months before suddenly hit Dean with the force of a baseball bat to the gut. Realization washed over him with another wave of sickness that left him short of breath.   


“So you figured it out, then,” Michael said.    


Dean looked up and saw that the archangel was watching him. “That…that was the state of Sam’s soul when Death pulled it from the Cage,” he guessed and nearly gagged at the thought of his brother in that much agony for so damn long.   


“Correct.”   


“And now he’s…” _Now that he remembers Hell and since Cas freaking sent us there, his soul’s…_   


“I believe your term is regressing,” Michael finished, crossing his arms.   


_ Sammy. _ _  
_

“Tell me, Sam,” Lucifer was saying, “how should we welcome you back?”   


Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, his face tight with pain, but didn’t say anything.    


“Sam, Sam, Sam,” Lucifer tsked. “You know I hate it when you’re quiet. I’ve always cared about what you think.” The Devil squeezed Sam’s leg and Sam cried out. Blood spread across Sam’s pant leg and Dean had the sinking feeling that his brother’s skin under his clothes was starting to look like his bloody, lashed face. Lucifer smiled. “That’s more like it.”   


Sam was panting harshly, eyes tracking as Lucifer circled him. “It seems time topside did you good, Sam.” Sam’s eyes briefly flicked toward Dean before going back to following the Devil. Lucifer saw the look and he stopped moving, also glancing in Dean’s direction. He smiled knowingly and Dean momentarily wanted to just vanish into the wall behind him.   


“Ah, I see. The brotherly bond. So very touching, boys.” There was bitterness in his voice and Michael shifted next to Dean, as if the comment had ruffled his invisible wings.   


And then Sam screamed as Lucifer plunged his hand into his midsection. Dean’s shocked cry was strangled in his throat as he listened to his brother’s screams trail off weakly. He’d never heard his brother sound so shattered before, even at the worst points in his detox, and it was haunting.   


“You know I love seeing what makes you tick, Sam. The only human worth any interest, made for me, made perfect for _me_ ,” Lucifer said silkily, his arm sliding further into Sam as blood seeped into Sam’s shirt and started pooling beneath the rack at an impossible rate. “So much time apart, Sam. You’ll have to forgive my curiosity.”   


Sam’s screams had died into pained, broken whimpers; blood dripped down his chin and mixing with the already bloody, flayed skin. And Sam was disturbingly pliant and submissive under Lucifer’s hand.   


Seeing his brother’s abject terror and the shape he’d been in for all that time he’d lived that damn apple pie life, watching his brother systematically destroyed on the rack after everything he’d tried to do to protect him from those horrors, hearing his brother’s broken, defeated screams…   


It was too much for Dean.   


His earlier fury from Cas flowed like molten lava into his current pool of anger toward the archangels who had broken his proud, strong, brave, stubborn brother in the first place.    


“You son of a bitch,” Dean raged at Lucifer, “haven’t you done enough to him already?”   


Satan just ignored him, continuing to focus on Sam, whose moans and occasional screams stabbed into Dean like blades.   


“Leave him alone! Take me instead, just please…leave him alone!”   


Dean jerked when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over at Michael, who wore a strange look on John’s young face. “There would be no point in that, Dean.”    


“What’re you talking about?”   


“Don’t you get it?” Michael said, spreading his arms. “This is _Hell_ , Dean _._ ”   


“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Dean retorted with as much snark as he could muster.   


Michael shook his head with a smirk that Dean sorely wished he could wipe off his face. Sam cried out again, sounding completely beaten. “ _That_ is Sam’s Hell,” Michael said, inclining his head toward Lucifer and Sam. “But this? Listening to your brother scream without being able to do anything? This is _your_ Hell, Dean.”   


Dean felt himself deflate as the truth of Michael’s words washed over him. _Oh god_. The archangel was right, too. No pain he’d endured on the rack for all those years hurt as acutely as hearing Sam tortured and knowing he couldn’t do anything about it. At least then, he’d been able to hold onto knowing that Sam was still alive, still fighting in the world of the living. But that assurance was gone now.   


Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “For being Heaven’s great champion, you’re pretty well-versed in this Hell stuff,” he muttered, wincing as Sam moaned.   


Michael snorted. “Being locked in here? Lucifer was right; it’s boring.”   


_ Especially without Sam to use as a human kickball _ , Dean thought with a pang, opening his eyes once more.   


“So you had to get creative. To _entertain_ yourselves,” he spat.    


“I knew you, of all people, would understand that, Dean.”   


That hurt. And made Dean strangely dizzy. He blinked as the crimson-trimmed room started spinning around him, losing all shape and direction, and he wondered if Michael had decided to get more creative after all…   


Only to hear the archangel yelling out something unintelligible—but his tone was unmistakably furious.   


And then he was pitching forward, his knees cracking painfully against the ground, instinctively bracing himself on his hands. He blinked away the dizziness only to realize he was looking at the cold cement floor of the warehouse.   


He gasped sharply and looked up to see Cas standing over him with that smile he hated so much.    


“Holy shit,” he breathed.   


And then he saw Sam across from him, lying face down on the ground and unmoving. One arm was sprawled in front of him, the other curled in at an odd angel at his side.   


“And,” Cas said, “that is what happens when you disobey.” Dean shuddered despite himself, the sounds of Sam’s broken screams still ringing in his ears. “Keep that in mind in the future.”   


And then Cas was gone, no fluttering of wings to announce his departure. _Guess he’s not an angel anymore_ , Dean considered off-handedly before jolting into motion.   


“Sammy,” he called, stumbling to his brother’s side. “Sammy, hey.”    


Dean slowly rolled Sam onto his back and breathed in a huge sigh of relief to see his skin unmarred. But Sam’s eyes were shut and his features lax, just as he’d been hours earlier in the panic room. Dean felt hurriedly for a pulse and found a slow but steady one and took a deep breath. He had a pretty good idea of what that meant and it scared the shit out of him.   


“Dean, what happened?”   


Dean started as Bobby knelt down on Sam’s other side, looking between them with a bewildered look on his face. Dean put a hand on Sam’s forehead and found his brother’s skin clammy. No surprise there.   


“How long were we gone?” he asked instead of answering.   


“Gone?” Bobby asked with a frown. “Cas snapped his fingers and the two of you just fell forward. You caught yourself but Sam just dropped.” The older hunter wiped his face under the bill of his cap with his forearm. “Why? What’d he do?”   


Dean pursed his lips, looking for the right words. _That was only seconds topside_ , he thought with a sick feeling. “Cas, uh, he—”   


“Tell me, son,” Bobby said with more patience than he must be feeling, which Dean appreciated more than he probably should with Sam in the shape he was in.   


“He sent us to the Cage,” Dean blurted, words falling over themselves to get out of his mouth before he could think about them. “Well, sent our souls I guess. Spent a little quality time with Lucifer and Michael.”   


Bobby inhaled sharply and cursed. He looked back down at Sam with newfound worry in his eyes. It was no wonder Sam wasn’t conscious; he’d already been fighting tooth and nail just to stay in control of those memories to get to Kansas and help with Cas before the road trip to Hell. To have his worst memories come to life once more so soon after getting them back without any time to work through them…That was just too much.    


But Michael was right; Dean’s Hell was watching his brother suffer without being to help and, yet again, he didn’t know what he could do for his brother.   


“I thought the Cage was nigh unreachable,” Bobby said after a moment. “How could he send both of you there and get you out when he couldn’t even get all of Sam out the first time?”   


“Cas’ juiced up on all those Purgatory souls now. I’m guessing he can do just about whatever the hell he wants at this point. Literally,” he added with a wince at his word choice.   


Bobby swallowed and nodded. “And your brother?”   


Dean shrugged and opened his mouth but shut it when he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. He frowned and accepted the call without checking the caller ID, eyes never leaving his brother’s face.   


“Dean Winchester,” a familiar voice said before Dean answered, “I can feel your brother’s psychic pains from here, so why don’t you get yourselves over here so I can help.” A beat. “And tell Bobby Singer he’s welcome, too.”   


Dean’s eyebrows shot up in recognition. “Missouri?”   


\-----   


__ tbc…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?" ****

Dean shrugged and opened his mouth but shut it when he heard his phone ringing in his pocket. He frowned and accepted the call without checking the caller ID, eyes never leaving his brother’s face.   


“Dean Winchester,” a familiar voice said before Dean answered, “I can feel your brother’s psychic pains from here, so why don’t you get yourselves over here so I can help.” A beat. “And tell Bobby Singer he’s welcome, too.”   


Dean’s eyebrows shot up in recognition. “Missouri?”   


“Who else would it be, boy?” Missouri replied impatiently; Dean could just picture the woman waving a hand dismissively and his lip twitched despite himself. “You’re nearby, aren’t you?”   


“In Bootback, so a couple hours out from Lawrence.”   


“And Sam?”   


Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “It’s a long story, Missouri.”   


A huff. “I’m sure. But he needs help.” It wasn’t a question and Dean was surprisingly grateful for that. Winchesters weren’t known for their ability to ask for help, even when they knew it would be freely given.   


“Yeah,” Dean replied, his voice shaking as he kept his eyes on his brother, “he does.”   


“Then get your behinds over here and we’ll see what we can do,” Missouri said, not unkindly.   


“Yes ma’am,” Dean replied, feeling a slight lightening in his chest. Having a goal, a direction to go from here to help Sam, was good, was what he needed.   


“Good. And Dean?”   


“Yeah?”   


“Be careful.”   


Dean nodded, figuring Missouri had gotten the message even though she couldn’t see him. As he hung up the call, Bobby’s startled expression caught his eye. “Did you say Missouri?” the older hunter asked.   


Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah.”   


“Missouri Moseley? The psychic?” Bobby pressed.   


“That’s her. Why, do you know her?”   


“Know _of_ her, sure. Ain’t too many hunters that haven’t heard o’ Missouri. She’s one of the best around. Knew John had talked to her, though I never met her,” Bobby replied.   


Dean frowned at that. He’d had no idea Missouri was renowned with hunters. The very idea made him wary, considering the last few times they’d had run-ins with other hunters.    


“We met her when we were looking for Dad. Haven’t seen her in years. But she knew.”   


“Knew?”   


Dean shrugged uncomfortably, looking back down at Sam, who hadn’t so much as flinched during the entire exchange. “That Sam was in trouble. She said she could _feel_ his pain and wanted to help.” Whatever that meant.   


“Well isn’t that convenient,” Bobby grumbled, clearly not sold on the idea. But considering one of their closest allies had just turned on them, Dean couldn’t begrudge the hunter his suspicion.   


“She’s only a few hours out. We should be able to make it by dawn if we leave now.” Dean blinked. “Ah shit.”   


“What?” Bobby suddenly looked alert.   


“The Impala,” Dean groaned, memory of crawling out of his crushed baby coming back to him with gut-wrenching clarity. God, that felt like a lifetime ago. “She was trashed by those demons. We won’t be able to drive her to Lawrence.”   


“Then we find whatever Sam drove,” Bobby supplied simply. Dean stared blankly, not making the connection. “What, you think your brother walked her from Sioux Falls, ya idjit?”   


“Oh, yeah.” That would make sense. “I guess we gotta carry him outta here.”   


Bobby grimaced at that and Dean couldn’t help but agree. The warehouse had turned out to be more maze-like than they had anticipated coming in, and Sam wasn’t light. But Sam was trapped in memories of Hell, unable to escape the horrors Dean had only gotten a glimpse of during that brief stint in the Cage; if Missouri could help, Dean would do whatever it took to make it happen, including lugging his Sasquatch of a brother through a labyrinthine building.   


Dean cast around the room for anything that might be useful as a makeshift stretcher but nothing stood out. Just a bunch of heavy medical equipment whose prior uses he really didn’t want to think about. He pushed himself to his feet and Bobby mirrored him.    


“You wanna, I guess, grab his feet?”    


Bobby nodded. “On three?”   


Dean placed himself at Sam’s head and gripped under his brother’s arms. “One.”   


Bobby grabbed Sam’s booted feet. “Two.”   


“Three.”    


Together the two hunters leveraged Sam off the ground, but a wave of searing pain jolted through Dean’s arm. He gasped and nearly dropped his brother but tightened his grip just in time. What with Cas becoming a god, killing Raphael, and sending them to Hell, he’d pretty much forgotten Crowley throwing him off the balcony; he didn’t think his arm was broken but it definitely didn’t need to be carrying two hundred-plus pounds of Sam.   


“You good?” Bobby asked, watching him carefully.   


Dean ground his teeth. “I’ll get back to you on that. Let’s move.”   


It was slow going through the tangled corridors, but Bobby seemed to know where to go, directing their path. That was great as far as Dean was concerned; it took all his concentration just to keep supporting Sam when his arm felt like it was being electro-shocked with every step.   


“Dammit Sam,” Dean grumbled, “I’m starting to think your lazy ass is enjoying all this sitting around.” Snarking at his unconscious brother was easier than thinking about what might be going on in that big brain of his.   


By the time they reached the exit, Dean was drenched in sweat and his vision was graying in and out. The cool air prickled against his skin and he took in a deep, steadying breath—he hadn’t been this happy to breathe fresh air since he’d climbed out of his grave nearly three years before. As they lay Sam back down on the ground, Dean very nearly collapsed next to his brother.   


Bobby’s stiff movements and the lines etched at his eyes signaled that his back was killing him from Crowley sending him tumbling down the stairs, but the older hunter took pity on Dean anyway. “Wait here with your brother. I’ll go find whatever Sam drove and bring it over.”   


Dean nodded and Bobby headed off into the darkness. Dean slumped bonelessly to the ground and put a hand on Sam’s leg as an anchor. They were far enough away from the road that the site of the accident wasn’t visible, but Dean imagined he could see his wrecked baby overturned on the road, waiting for him to come and fix her.   


_ Sorry baby _ , he apologized to his car, wherever she was. _It might be a little while, but we’ll get you taken care of_. First he had to take care of his brother then he’d take care of his girl.   


With a sigh, Dean turned back to Sam. “Come on, Sammy. I can’t lose you, too. Not again. Not after everything.” But his brother gave no indication he’d heard him. Dean scrubbed his face through his hands tiredly, wincing as his arm flared up rebelliously at the movement.   


He looked up when he heard the faint growl of an approaching engine. He stumbled back to his feet as Bobby steered an faded blue four door junker toward them; it must’ve been the first car Sam found in the salvage yard that he could hotwire back to life.    


They steered Sam’s limp form into the backseat, though his legs ended up dangling off the seat in a manner that made Dean wince as they shut the door, careful of Sam’s loose limbs.   


Dean slid into the front seat and immediately turned to look back at his brother, hoping against hope he might shoot a bitchface in Dean’s direction and complain about how uncomfortable the backseat of this piece of crap car was. He searched Sam’s lax face for something, anything.   


_ Come on, Sammy. You know you wanna complain, stubborn little bitch that you are. _   


He deflated as Bobby dropped into the driver’s seat and turned the keys in the ignition. Nothing.   


“We’ll get this figured out, Dean,” Bobby said softly.   


Dean nodded, though he wasn’t so sure this time. But he didn’t dare voice that, didn’t dare give life to that possibility. “Yeah.” He swallowed and turned back to face the front as Bobby put the car in drive.    


“Yeah, I know we will.”   


\-----

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Dean pointed Bobby to Missouri’s house. The two-story structure didn’t stand out in any way; the neatly trimmed hedges and artfully crafted flower garden in the front fit right in with the row of manicured houses along the block.    


Dean shivered. The freakin’ Apocalypse had been averted in a cemetery not a handful of miles from here almost two years before. But Missouri’s neighborhood looked the same as it had when they’d been looking for their Dad—when things had been so simple. Everything and nothing had changed, and the thought made Dean dizzy.   


Or that might have been the exhaustion behind his eyes and the pain throbbing through his arm. Who was counting, anyway?   


As Bobby pulled the car into the nondescript driveway, Dean looked up to see Missouri walking toward them. She must have been waiting up. He gave her a once over and allowed himself a weak smile; she hadn’t changed either. For some reason, that was a small measure of comfort.   


Dean and Bobby pulled themselves stiffly from the car. Dean rounded the front of the car as Missouri reached them, and the psychic pulled him into a giant hug.    


“Dean Winchester,” she murmured into his ear, “it’s good to see you, boy.”   


“You too, Missouri.” And, Dean realized with a small jolt, it really _was_ good to see her. The list of people Dean could trust had shrunk so much over the last few years that having someone from his past he could turn to took him by complete surprise.   


Missouri pulled back and gave Dean a sad smile. Oh yeah. She could read minds from a touch. But that was just as well; he didn’t think he had the energy to fill her in anyway.    


The psychic turned to Bobby and held out a hand. “Bobby Singer, it’s nice to finally meet you.”   


“So you’re the renowned Missouri Moseley,” the older hunter replied, taking her hand.   


Missouri chuckled. “I see our reputations precede us.”   


Dean cleared his throat. As great as the introductions were, he had an unconscious brother in the backseat who hadn’t so much as made a sound since going down in the warehouse hours earlier.   


“Right,” Missouri said, turning to business. “We need to get Sam inside.”   


“Won’t your neighbors be suspicious if they see us carrying a body inside your house?” Bobby asked.   


Missouri shook her head. “Honey, the sun’s barely coming up. No one’s gonna see you if you move your butts quickly.” Her lips twitched upward. “Besides, anyone that’s up will still be in desperate need of coffee and wouldn’t believe what they were seeing anyway.”   


Dean snorted, recognizing the universal truth there. Missouri went to open the front door and between them, Dean and Bobby maneuvered Sam’s dead weight from the backseat. Dean bit back a string of curses as his arm flared up when he gripped Sam’s upper body. He knew better than to let those fly around Missouri, though she undoubtedly heard them anyway.   


He glanced up at her and she clucked her tongue. “Will you two hurry up? That poor boy isn’t suffering any less just lying there.”   


That spurred the hunters into action despite their aches and pains. They managed to carry Sam into Missouri’s living room and deposit him on the couch in the living room, where the psychic had already laid out a pillow and some blankets. After pulling Sam’s boots off, Missouri spread a blanket over his lower half while Dean pulled a chair from the kitchen into the living room so he could keep vigil over his brother.   


Bobby dropped into the armchair where he could keep an eye on the proceedings. Missouri disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. She handed one to Bobby and one to Dean. Dean accepted it without looking at its contents, never taking his eyes off Sam’s face. His brother could be sleeping for all it looked like.   


But Sam had never found peace in his dreams, not since he was a kid.    


_ And he might never wake up now _ .    


Dean shoved the thought as far from his mind as he could, but its presence still taunted him—and he wondered if that was what the wall had felt like in Sam’s mind for all those months, like some itch he’d tried desperately to ignore but constantly goaded him to scratch, scratch, scratch.   


He shook his head to himself and another thought hit him. He looked up at Missouri, who stood at his shoulder, watching Sam.   


“On the phone,” he said, “you said you could feel Sam’s pain from here. What’d you mean?”   


He felt Bobby straighten up in his seat.   


Missouri nodded. “You know your brother has strong psychic powers.”   


Dean frowned. “He hasn’t had visions since Yellow Eyes died, and he hasn’t used his freaky demon exorcising powers since—” Dean trailed off, thinking of Famine, thinking of Detroit… He swallowed thickly. “Well, he hasn’t for awhile.”   


“Just because he hasn’t used them doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them, Dean,” Missouri replied gently. “The day you came to my house, I recognized your brother as one of the most powerful psychics I’d ever seen. And he’s only gotten stronger since.” She paused. “I can only assume Sam’s been keeping his powers under wraps, forcing them to remain dormant within him.”   


Dean nodded. “He said he didn’t like what they turned him into,” he mumbled, remembering the third night of Sam’s second detox. The panic room had been quiet for hours, though Dean hadn’t known if Sam had screamed himself hoarse—or if the silence was something more permanent.   


_ “The worst should be over,” Cas said from his unmoving vigil next to the panic room door when Dean voiced his concern.  _ _   
_

_ He didn’t know why the angel felt the need to watch over Sam’s entire detox, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask, not when he’d spent the majority of the last three days going through bottle after bottle in the salvage yard rather than listen his brother scream reminder after reminder of all his failures in looking after him, in protecting him.  _ _   
_

_ Dean nodded mutely and opened the peep hole. Sam was cuffed to the bed—he’d asked Dean to tie him down the moment they’d gotten back to Bobby’s and Dean hadn’t been able to meet his brother’s pleading, agonized eyes as he’d clicked the cuffs into place. After that, he’d fled into the basement, and eventually into the salvage yard—and his head was turned away. _ _   
_

_ He frowned, looking for any signs of life in his brother and sighed in relief after a moment when he realized Sam’s entire body was trembling weakly. His chest was rising and falling so slowly he’d barely been able to tell that Sam was even breathing. _ _   
_

_ Dean closed the peep hole and opened the door. He looked over at Cas. “I got this. Thanks for…you know, watching over him.” _ _   
_

_ The angel nodded. “I’ll see if Bobby requires any assistance.” _ _   
_

_ “Yeah.” _ _   
_

_ Dean stepped into the panic room and made his way to Sam’s side, careful to make some noise as not to startle his brother. He didn’t think Sam was still hallucinating, but that didn’t mean Sam was aware of that yet. His brother gave no indication he’d heard Dean’s approach. Dean frowned as he looked over Sam; his skin was pale and coated in sweat, his clothes reeked from sweat and vomit, his wrists were bloody from chafing against the cuffs even though Dean had made sure to pad them, and his hair was plastered across his face, obscuring his features. _ _   
_

_ “Hey,” Dean greeted gently, sitting down on the cot. _ _   
_

_ For a moment, Dean couldn’t tell if Sam was conscious until he noticed the tension in Sam’s shaking frame. He was awake but refusing to look at Dean. _ _   
_

_ “Cas says the worst is over. You can come up any time, bro.” _ _   
_

_ Sam didn’t reply and Dean supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He pulled the handcuff key from his pocket and set to freeing the side of his brother closest to him. He unlocked his ankle and when he’d freed Sam’s hand, Sam turned away from him, pulling his wrist into his chest. _ _   
_

_ “Sammy?” _ _   
_

_ No response. With a shrug, Dean unlocked Sam’s other ankle and his brother shifted completely onto his side and curled his legs up into himself as well, as if he was trying to make himself as small as possible.  _ _   
_

Oh. _Well, Dean could relate to that._ _   
_

_ Dean pushed himself to his feet and walked around the cot. He knelt in front of Sam, whose glazed hazel eyes were pointedly looking at a spot on the wall beyond him. Dean unlocked the last cuff but grabbed Sam’s arm before he could pull it in on himself as well. _ _   
_

_ Sam frowned but still didn’t look at Dean or say anything, though his muscles were still tense.  _ _   
_

_ “Let’s get your wrists cleaned up,” Dean said simply, still holding Sam’s arm but waiting for his brother’s permission to do anything else. Finally, the tension eased out of Sam’s body and his arm went limp in Dean’s grip. _ _   
_

_ Dean nodded and let go. He grabbed the first aid kit from across the room and returned to his brother’s side. He toweled off the blood from Sam’s wrist before covering the raw wound with antibiotic cream and wrapped it gently but firmly with gauze and tape.  _ _   
_

_ “Lemme see the other one,” he said. For a moment, he thought Sam might ignore him, but Sam pulled his bandaged wrist into his chest and held out his other arm, though he still wasn’t looking at Dean. _ _   
_

_ As Dean toweled off the blood from the other wound, Sam’s voiced startled him so hard he jerked. “M’fine, Dean,” he whispered. _ _   
_

_ God, his voice was absolutely wrecked. He sounded like his throat had gone a few rounds with a meat grinder and lost. But the exhaustion and resignation behind the hoarse words were what really hit Dean. _ _   
_

_ “Like hell you are,” Dean retorted, composing himself and returning to work _ _   
_

_ “You don’t have to,” Sam swallowed roughly, “do this.” _ _   
_

_ “No,” Dean agreed. “I don’t. But I want to. So don’t be a bitch.” _ _   
_

_ And that’s when Dean felt Sam’s gaze on him for the first time. He spared a glance to see half-mast hazel eyes on his face.  _ _   
_

_ “Dean…” _ _   
_

_ “Shut up, Sam,” Dean replied simply, switching the bloody towel aside for the antibiotic cream. _ _   
_

_ “Dean, I…” Sam trailed off. _ _   
_

_ Dean simply worked the cream over the lacerations on Sam’s arm and waited. _ _   
_

_ “I screwed up,” he said at last. His voice barely made it above a whisper, but Dean heard it loud and clear. “Again. And I’m sorry.” He winced. “I feel like…” He trailed off, but Dean didn’t press. He put the cream down and grabbed the gauze and started wrapping.  _ _   
_

_ After a moment, Sam spoke up again. “I feel like that’s all I can say anymore.” _ _   
_

_ “Sammy…” _ _   
_

_ But Sam kept going as though Dean hadn’t spoken. “All I do is fuck up, apologize, and then fuck up again.” He barked a harsh laugh that sounded worse through his grated throat. “I hate it.” _ _   
_

_ Dean grabbed the tape to secure the gauze around Sam’s wrist.  _ _   
_

_ “I hate that I can’t do anything but fuck up and cause you problems. I hate that you can’t trust me.” _ _   
_

_ Dean blinked at that. “You think I don’t trust you?” _ _   
_

_ Sam snorted. “Why would you?  _ I _don’t trust me.” He sighed and slumped back—or as much as he could since he was already curled pretty deeply into the mattress. “I just…”_ _   
_

_ “What?” Sam blinked and Dean squeezed his arm gently as he put the tape aside. “What, Sam?” _ _   
_

_ Sam shut his eyes behind the curtain of his hair. “I just wanted to make something good out of these powers, you know? They’re not natural, but I still had them and was so sure I could use them to help instead of what Yellow Eyes wanted.” He grimaced and opened his eyes again. “Guess he got the last laugh after all, huh?” _ _   
_

_ Dean didn’t have anything to say to that. Instead, he let go of Sam’s arm and pulled himself onto the cot at Sam’s hip. _ _   
_

_ “I hate what these powers turn me into,” Sam whispered after a long silence. “They make me feel so strong, like I could take on anything, like I could  _ save _anyone, Dean.” A cough racked Sam’s frame and he wheezed painfully before collecting himself again._ _   
_

_ “But they scare the hell out of me,” he whispered in a small, vulnerable voice that made something that had been buried deep in Dean’s chest since he’d learned about Sam’s dealings with Ruby ache.  _ _   
_

_ Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean. “Dean, I swear to God, I’m done. I’m done letting these powers control me, make me their puppet.” _ _   
_

_ They looked at each other, neither willing to break the gaze for what could have been seconds or hours as far as Dean could tell. But finally, something inside him loosened and his lip quirked. “Swear to God, huh, Sammy? You sure about that?” _ _   
_

_ Sam’s eyes widened before he snorted and shut his eyes wearily. “You know what I mean, jerk.” _   


“Even though he was suppressing them,” Missouri said, breaking Dean’s reverie, “they’ll always be with him. Psychic powers are tied to both the mind and the soul.”   


Dean’s eyes widened at that. “The soul?”   


Missouri nodded and frowned at Dean’s tone. “Yes. Why?”   


“So without a soul, psychic powers would, what, be gone?” Bobby asked and Missouri looked back at him.   


It made so much sense that Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about it before. Robo-Sam wouldn’t have had any qualms about using psychic powers if he’d had access to them, especially once Dean had told him to stop pretending to be Sammy.   


Missouri frowned. “Theoretically, I suppose. But I’ve never heard of anything like that happening before.” And then her eyes widened and she looked back to Dean, then at Sam, and back to Dean again. “You mean…?”   


Dean shrugged and Missouri took it for the confirmation it was. “Oh. Well.” She had to visibly collect herself. “Without a soul, there would be nothing to anchor the powers within the mind.”   


“But as soon as Sam got his soul back,” Dean deduced, “his powers returned with it.”   


“Again, theoretically,” Missouri replied. “I never thought anything like that was even possible.”   


“Welcome to my life,” Dean grumbled. Bobby grunted his agreement.   


Missouri shook her head before continuing her explanation. “Anyway, Sam’s no longer in control of his power.”   


Dean’s eyebrows shot up at that and his stomach clenched. He’d seen what those powers were capable of, aimed at both demons and Sam himself in detox. Nothing good could come from a lack of control in that department.   


“What d’ya mean?” Bobby asked gruffly.   


“Sam’s suffering is soul-deep,” Missouri said. “It’s so intense that he can no longer keep his abilities at bay.”   


Dean frowned, thinking of the violence that manifested when Sam’s powers were out of control. “But nothing’s…happened. Yet, anyway.”   


“He’s projecting,” Missouri replied.   


“Projecting?”   


Missouri nodded. “He’s projecting his pain and suffering on a psychic level because he can no longer control it. It’s completely instinctual, especially when pain runs that deep.”   


Bobby’s brow creased as he frowned. “Instinctual? What do you mean?”   


“It’s a survival mechanism for psychics,” Missouri replied, crossing her arms. She had a thoughtful look on her face as she looked at Sam. “When a person with abilities feels deeply threatened, it’s instinctual for them to reach out to others like him or her for help. They project their fear or pain to those in tune with the psychic wavelength.”   


“But Sam’s been ‘deeply threatened,’” Dean replied with air quotes and earned a smack on the back of his head for his trouble, “a lot since we last saw you,” he finished with a wince.    


Missouri nodded, eyes slightly narrowed. Dean slouched slightly in his seat, the mug resting between his legs. “From what I know about Sam, he’s never fully accepted his abilities.”   


Dean thought about Ruby and Lilith and shook his head. “There was a time…” But he trailed off, not able to finish the thought.   


Missouri, though, was smiling wanly. “If a psychic on Sam’s level were to ever fully ‘flip the switch,’ so to speak,” she said, “I would’ve felt it. And so would many other powerful psychics.”   


“But…”   


“Dean, honey, just because he used his powers doesn’t mean he ever fully accepted them.”   


Dean opened his mouth but shut it again. He considered what he knew about the other psychic kids Azazel had been recruiting—and the bits of the _All Hell Breaks Loose_ book he’d been able to bring himself to read. Ava and Jake, even Andy, sounded as though they’d accepted their power. Jake hadn’t shown any strain using his power to control Ellen in that cemetery in Wyoming. Yet Sam…Sam had always struggled with his power, never able to use them with ease from what Dean could tell now that he thought about it.   


He remembered storming into the convent to find Lilith dead and Sam on the ground. He’d looked betrayed but also completely drained. He hadn’t given it another thought at the moment since he’d been focused on killing Ruby, but yeah, his brother had been completely on empty.    


“Huh,” was all he managed to say.   


“That’s right, Dean Winchester,” Missouri huffed. “Anyway, if he never fully accepted them, then he never would have tapped into that innate instinct to reach out on a psychic wavelength.”   


“But now that the hell wall’s down and all his memories are back,” Dean concluded, “he’s suffering on the soul level to the point that he can’t keep his power shoved down anymore.”    


Missouri nodded, prodding him to continue.    


“So, when you said you felt his pain, it was because his powers were reaching out on that,” he continued, waving his hands as he cast about for the right words, “wavelength or whatever.”   


“That’s my best guess. And I doubt I’m the only one who felt it.” Dean’s eyes widened again but Missouri put a hand on his shoulder. “But I’m sure I’m the only one who recognized the source.”   


“Huh,” he repeated wearily, slumping back against the chair and looking at Sam. This stuff scared the shit out of him and it went against every protective instinct just to watch his brother, especially knowing the depth of his pain. “You said you could help him?” he asked.   


“I have a few ideas, yes,” the psychic replied.   


“So what are we waiting for?” Dean demanded.   


Missouri shook her head. “You’re no good to me or to Sam in that shape, Dean,” she said sternly. “You need some rest.”   


Dean rounded on her. “I can’t rest, not when my brother’s mind is locked up in Hell, Missouri.”   


Missouri’s eyes widened slightly and Dean shoved his irritation back down. “M’sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I just…I just can’t stand to see him hurting.”   


“I know,” Missouri replied. She glanced over at Bobby a moment before looking back to him. She nodded at the mug in his lap. “Drink some of that. It’ll help. Not with what’s most important,” she amended at his look, “but with the pain.”   


Dean raised an eyebrow and Missouri smiled. “It’s tea. I mixed in some painkillers. You both look like the walking dead.”   


Dean huffed a weak laugh and took a long draught of the tea. He choked slightly. “Ew, s’cold.”    


Missouri snorted. “Should have drank it sooner,” she said. She turned from Dean to Bobby and nodded toward the stairs. “I’ve got some books upstairs that might be useful. Do you mind?”   


Bobby pushed himself to his feet. “I guess my reputation really did precede me.” Missouri headed for the stairs and Bobby put a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he passed. “Keep an eye on your brother, son.”   


“Always,” Dean murmured around a yawn.   


As Missouri and Bobby headed up the stairs, Dean grabbed his brother’s hand. “Come on, Sammy. I’m here, man.”   


\-----   


After about half an hour of sorting through Missouri’s library, Bobby followed the psychic back down the stairs. For a moment, Bobby felt a surge of panic in his gut when he saw Dean’s chair empty. And then he stepped into the living room after Missouri, who was smiling slightly.   


Dean had moved from his chair to the couch and had cradled Sam’s head in his lap in lieu of the pillow. He was fast asleep with his injured arm thrown over Sam’s chest protectively and the other gripping his brother’s shoulder.    


Bobby’s eyebrows went up and he looked over at Missouri. She titled her head. “What?”   


“I didn’t think that boy’d be sleeping for days,” he replied, still astonished.   


Missouri smiled. “Oh, well I figured as much.”   


Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “What’d you do?” He frowned. “The drink?”   


The psychic chuckled. “Don’t give me that look, Bobby Singer. I _did_ put painkillers in yours.”   


“And in Dean’s?”   


Missouri went into the kitchen and brought out a pair of pill bottles. Her eyes had widened innocently. “Oh my, it seems I may have mixed sleeping pills into Dean’s on accident.”   


_ Ahhh _ , Bobby thought. _Devious woman._ But he couldn’t help smiling anyway.    


“That would be the only way to get him to sleep,” he granted.   


“He’s going to need all the rest he can get,” Missouri said, “and Sam’s going to need him well-rested.”   


Bobby nodded at that. Missouri knew the Winchesters better than he’d anticipated. And she was devious enough to deal with them, too. No wonder John had respected her so much.   


“I take it you have something in mind, then? For Sam?”   


She nodded. “I do. But there are no guarantees.”    


Her gaze had gone back to the brothers on the couch. That could have been a picture of any number of times Bobby had found them conked out in his living room, one of them hurt or sick. It pained him to think what had happened this time, though. He swallowed and shook his head.   


“There never are.” He nodded toward Sam and Dean. “But I’ve learned never to bet against the Winchesters.”   


\-----   


_ tbc… _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?" ****

Sam sat on the bed furthest from the motel room door, his back propped against the headboard and his computer open on his lap. He’d been looking for a hunt while Dean had gone for some takeout and beer but hadn’t come up with many options. It never boded well when the supernatural was hiding under the radar. He sighed and clicked out of the browser just as the door opened. Sam looked over to see Dean shoving the door open with his hip, both hands full with bags from his apparently successful outing.   


“Hey,” Sam greeted as Dean managed to shut the door behind him.   


Dean didn’t say anything, merely dropped the bags on his bed. Sam shut the laptop and placed it on the bedside table as Dean shucked out of his jacket.   


Sam was checking the time on the clock when a sudden blinding pain struck him in the temple. He gasped in surprise, eyes going wide as another blow caught him across the cheek. His vision spun and he jerked back. The back of his head slammed against the headboard. Dazed, he bonelessly slid down the headboard as another sharp bolt hit him. His head snapped to the side from the force and his vision went white.   


As the brightness slowly receded, he realized he was lying flat on the bed. When had that happened? He tried to move his head to see, but his body didn’t seem to be in the mood to take instructions. The room swam and he shut his eyes against the wave of nausea that washed over him. When he dared open his eyes again, he couldn’t crack them more than halfway. His head was throbbing and his thoughts fuzzy. Why did he need to open his eyes again, anyway?   


“Sammy,” a voice said from somewhere above him.    


Sam couldn’t quite connect the sound with anything concrete—though something in the back of his mind told him he should—but he struggled to turn his head toward the voice anyway. He must have succeeded, because a familiar face was suddenly towering over him.   


“There you are,” the figure said, teeth showing in what was probably meant to be a smile. Something didn’t ring true about the face, though Sam’s sluggish mind couldn’t pinpoint why.   


“D’n?” he heard himself murmur before he thought about the word. _Dean?_ And then recognition hit him like another blow, and he felt his mind clear slightly like a layer of fog burning off in the morning sun. _Dean. Brother. Partner. Best friend._   


“Heya, kiddo,” Dean said, still towering over Sam.   


Sam’s eyes slid down to his brother’s hand, which was balled into a fist at his side. The knuckles were bloody and torn. Sam’s eyes widened slightly, his own pain forgotten because this seemed much more important.    


“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out helpfully.   


Dean’s gaze flicked down to his hand briefly before coming back up. “Not mine.”   


Sam frowned at that. “Then whose…” And then another layer of fog burned off and Sam’s words choked off in realization.    


He tried to move, to get away from his brother when he suddenly found his arms pinned to either side of his head. He tried to jerk free, but his brother’s grip was strong and Sam was still out of it, his limbs too long and loose to control. And that was when he felt the weight settle on top of him, pinning him completely. He looked up to see Dean straddling his legs, hands holding down Sam’s wrists.   


Sam swallowed, eyes searching out his brother’s. “What the hell, Dean?”   


There was something behind Dean’s gaze that struck a jolt of fear through Sam’s entire body, something he’d never seen in his brother’s eyes before. He tried to buck his brother off, but Dean held firm. Dean’s grip was as tight as any cuffs or rope that had bound him before. He off-handedly thought his brother’s grip was going to leave finger-shaped bruises on his wrists then wondered where _that_ came from.    


Sam barely had time to register that Dean had released his arms before his brother reared back and struck again, this time aiming for Sam’s other temple. Sam’s head jerked and he slumped as his mind went hazy again and his vision swirled around him. It took a monumental effort to keep his eyes open. His head lolled to the side against the pillow, and he distantly registered the small pool of blood next to him. A hand cupped his chin and Dean came back into his wavy vision. Sam swallowed back bile rising in his throat.   


“What the _hell_ , indeed.” There was something cold, inhuman, in Dean’s tone, matching whatever was lurking behind his eyes. And that’s when Sam knew.   


“You’re n’Dean…” he slurred, mouth struggling to form the syllables as the room tilted and twirled around him.   


Not-Dean’s mouth quirked. “What was that, Sammy?”   


“Not. Dean,” Sam repeated.   


Not-Dean’s hands wound themselves around Sam’s throat. Sam tensed and his eyes widened slightly before his air supply was cut off. Already dazed, Sam could barely muster the strength to raise his arms to shove ineffectually at his attacker’s chest before black spots danced in front of his eyes. His hands dropped down to pull weakly at the hands wrapped around his neck but his fingers couldn’t remember how to grip correctly.   


_ Not Dean. Not Dean, _ Sam repeated to himself as his arms dropped back helplessly to either side of him. He was spread eagle on the bed and something wearing his brother’s face was strangling him… Tears from the lack of air were forming at the corners of his eyes but some stubborn part of him refused to let them fall.   


“You once did this to me, Sam. Remember?” not-Dean said, his calm tone belying the violent action.   


And Sam did remember. A day didn’t go by that he didn’t think about what he’d done to his brother and feel bitter shame over it, over his weakness in front of demon blood addiction.    


“Turnabout is fair play, don’t ‘cha think, _little brother_?”    


Sam’s lungs were burning as a hot wave of self-hatred washed over him. He let go of the dam holding back the tears of pain and fear and went limp beneath his brother’s doppelganger.    


There was no point in fighting.   


His vision tunneled as not-Dean smirked, gave one final squeeze, and let go, rolling off of Sam. Life-giving air rushed back into Sam’s lungs and he coughed painfully, the air burning against his throat. His vision grayed out and he tried to curl in on himself to ease his breathing but couldn’t find the strength to move.   


Once he could breathe again and the room had mostly stilled underneath him, Sam hazarded a look to the other bed, where not-Dean was rummaging through the bags he’d brought into the room. Sam was pretty sure the bags didn’t hold any lo mien or Jack and let out a bark of hysterical laughter at the thought.   


Dean pulled out something Sam couldn’t see before turning his unfamiliarly cold gaze back on Sam. Sam’s eyes immediately went to the object in his hand.   


A razor.   


Sam’s stomach dropped at the sight but he might as well have been shackled to the bed for all he could move. His muddled mind tried to piece together what was going on, but every thought kept slipping away, like rain water through a sewer grate. He couldn’t think and that, more than anything, made Sam feel completely helpless. And terrified.   


Not-Dean tapped the razor blade in the palm of his hand as he assessed Sam. The look was both predatory and possessive, and Sam felt a shiver run down his spine.   


“You know Dean was Alastair’s favorite, both before and after he got off the rack,” not-Dean said after a long moment. Sam’s voice was locked in his burning throat, so he said nothing. “He was a quick learner, your brother.” Not-Dean’s smile was frigid. “And Alastair had so much to teach.”   


Not-Dean began circling the end of the bed Sam was frozen to. Sam could only find the strength to track him with his eyes. The doppelganger expertly twirled the blade between his fingers in transfixing patterns as he moved.   


“Alastair was the best in the Pit. Had been for centuries. Before _you_ took care of him that is.” Not-Dean’s voice took on a tinge of bitterness that quickly vanished. “But.”   


Not-Dean stopped pacing once he’d returned to Sam’s side of the bed. He hefted the razor and the light from the bedside lamp glinted off the blade. Sam blinked away from the glare. “But he was only a demon.   


“Demons,” not-Dean said with disdain, “have nowhere near the imagination of an archangel.”   


Sam swallowed tightly against the burning in his throat and fear gnawing at his gut.   


“You sealed me back in Hell, Sam. After everything I wanted for you.” The temperature in the room dropped as the hand holding the blade tightened its grip. “Turnabout and all.”   


Lucifer brought the razor down and Sam screamed.   


\-----

Dean stood at the head of the sofa with his arms crossed over his chest and watched tensely as Missouri pulled up a chair next to Sam’s unconscious form. He was still peeved Missouri and Bobby had let him sleep into the late afternoon when he needed to be helping Sam. But the psychic and hunter hadn’t backed down and Dean had been forced to—grudgingly—comply with their parental wishes.   


With Bobby as their only surviving parental figure, Dean and Sam had gotten used to their own set of unspoken rules and routines that were slightly altered when visiting Sioux Falls but had otherwise kept them going over the years. Having to set that history aside, and hand over his responsibility for Sam to another person, was harder than Dean would have liked to admit, especially when he implicitly trusted Missouri.   


But Sam was locked inside his own unimaginable suffering, so Dean figured he was entitled to be grouchy over having to stand by and do nothing.   


“You sure this is going to work?” he asked Missouri.   


The psychic gave him a wilting look and Dean backed off. Okay, so maybe he’d asked the same question a few (hundred) times too many since Missouri had explained her plan. His skin itched with restless energy.   


“Your brother is locked in his mind,” Missouri said. “He needs another psychic to anchor him and lead him out of there.”   


“And that’s you,” Dean said with a nod.   


“And that’s me,” she agreed.   


“But we don’t know what’s going on in there,” Bobby argued for what seemed like the hundredth time. Dean had the feeling he and Missouri had gone over the same issue while he’d been asleep as well.   


“All the more reason to bring him out,” Dean growled impatiently, not backing down at Bobby’s disapproving look at his tone. He loved Bobby like a father and almost always deferred to his knowledge on the supernatural, but while they argued over this, Sam was back in _Hell_. And Dean felt qualified to intercede on his brother’s behalf on that account.   


“I’m not arguing that, boy,” Bobby retorted. Dean relented at the slight hitch in the older hunter’s voice. He was worried about Sam, too. Dean didn’t have a monopoly on worrying about his brother, he had to remind himself. “I just want to make sure we do this right,” Bobby added more gently.   


Dean nodded mutely, a lump forming in his throat.   


“I know my limits, boys,” Missouri interjected. “If it’s too much, we’ll simply find another way to help him. But sitting here talking about it all day isn’t doing him any good.”   


“You have some other ideas?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.   


“I’ll find some,” she replied determinedly. And Dean believed her.   


At Dean’s nod, Missouri placed her hands lightly on Sam’s head and shut her eyes. Dean watched Missouri’s face, which had gone blank, then Sam’s, which showed no sign of change, then Missouri again. He glanced up as Bobby took the place across from Dean at Sam’s feet. The older hunter shrugged at Dean’s look and they resumed their vigil.   


Several agonizing minutes passed before Missouri shuddered and opened her eyes. She huffed in frustration. Sam hadn’t reacted at all.   


“What happened?” Dean demanded.   


Missouri shook her head as she looked at Dean. “I’m sorry, honey.” Dean felt a cold weight forming in his gut at that.   


“Sorry for what, exactly?” Bobby asked for him, probably seeing the look Dean knew must be on his face.   


“I can’t breach his mind,” Missouri replied.   


Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”   


Missouri placed her hands on her lap carefully. “I mean, Sam’s mind is walled off to keep out any perceived threats. I can’t get past it.”   


“But you’re not a threat.”   


“Sam doesn’t know that,” Missouri said. “Not in his state.”   


Dean felt the cold weight drop at those words and he shuddered. He looked down at his brother’s slack face. For Sam’s sake, he might have prayed, but cut the idea off at its head since he was pretty sure the only _god_ listening was the one who had done this to Sam in the first place.    


Anger boiled over the ice in Dean’s blood at the thought.   


“Sam’s locked so far within himself that he can’t tell the difference between friend and foe,” Missouri continued, pulling Dean back to reality. Part of him didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to hear how much his brother was suffering because, once again, Dean had failed to protect him.    


“I have a feeling he’s had these mental barriers for awhile,” the psychic mused. “But they’ve gotten stronger over time, the more threatened he’s felt.”   


Dean looked up from Sam at that. “I thought he wasn’t…”   


“How do you think he’s kept his powers at bay?” Missouri asked with a small smile. “He probably didn’t even know he was doing it; just his sheer will not to tap into his abilities walled his mind off.” She looked back at Sam, her face softening in a way that made Dean’s heart clench.    


“I think that wall would hold out even the strongest human psychic. Probably most demons, too. But…”   


“But not an archangel,” Bobby supplied. The “ _or two_ ” was left hanging on the air, though Dean heard it loud and clear. Missouri nodded sadly.   


“So if no one can get into his mind, how can we help him?” Dean demanded, running a hand over his face. Stubble rubbed against his palm, but a shave was the last thing on his mind.   


“I didn’t say _no one_ can get into his mind,” Missouri said.   


Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You said—”   


“I said,” Missouri cut in, “that nothing Sam perceives as a threat can get into his mind.”   


“But if Sam won’t let you in…” Dean said, trailing off.   


Missouri fixed him with a stare that made him want to fidget. “Dean, I think the only one he’ll let into his mind is you.”   


Dean wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. He opened his mouth and shut it a few times before he managed to form words. “What?” was the most intelligent thing he could come up with.   


Missouri squared herself to look him in the eye. “You’re the greatest constant in his life,” the psychic said. “Honey, if there’s anybody that Sam will recognize as friendly, it’s you.”   


Dean shook his head and threw his hands up in front of him, as though they could keep the words at bay a moment longer. He’d long ago accepted that psychic abilities were a part of Sam, even if it had taken some getting used to once Sam had admitted to his visions, but Dean? Dean didn’t have that in _his_ blood.   


“Wait a sec, Missouri. I’m no psychic.” He pinched the bridge of his nose at the building pressure. “So even if that’s true, how am I supposed to get into his grapefruit in the first place?”   


“With my help,” Missouri replied. “I can anchor you on the psychic wavelength and keep you in Sam’s mind, but you’ll have to be the one to enter his mind and bring him out.”    


Dean licked his lips nervously and glanced over at Bobby, who shrugged. “It’s the best idea we’ve got, son. Unless you’ve got something else…"  


“No.” Dean shook his head again. “No, I’ve got nothing.” This was one of the crazier things Dean had heard in a long and storied career of crazy. But…    


“Fine.” If this even worked, which he had his doubts about, he didn’t relish the thought of jumping into Sam’s Hell memories with his own still waking him up in cold sweats more often than he’d ever admit.   


But if there was even the slightest chance of helping Sam, then there was no question.   


He uncrossed his arms and flexed his fingers at his sides. “So how do we do this?”   


Dean ended up grabbing a chair from the kitchen and pulling it up behind Sam’s head, where he’d been standing before. He put one hand on Sam’s temple and the other grasped Missouri’s hand, while her free hand touched the other side of Sam’s head. It was one of the stranger circles Dean had seen in his time but something clicked together in his chest once the circuit had been completed.    


“Remember,” Missouri began.   


“Keep the circle together at all times,” Dean supplied.   


Missouri pursed her lips but nodded. “Breaking the circle could cause you or Sam—or both of you—to be lost in his mind with no way out.” She fixed him with a pointed stare. “I can only get you into his mind, Dean. Once there, it’s all up to you.”   


“No pressure,” he muttered. _Saving your brother from eternal torment in his own mind is all up to you, kid, so don’t blow it. No big deal or anything._ Bobby snorted and Missouri heaved a sigh.   


“Are you ready?” the psychic asked.   


Dean breathed in and nodded. “Let’s get this show on the road, then.”   


Missouri shut her eyes and after one final glance in Bobby’s direction, Dean followed suit. As darkness encroached, he felt something pouring into him, flowing through him like blood. It was like being injected with pure energy. His skin was practically humming.    


“Whoa.”   


_ “That’s just me anchoring you, Dean.” _   


Missouri’s voice bounced through his head. Dean blinked and spun around in a complete circle, seeing only darkness around him. The black felt like it was closing in on him and Dean had to swallow back a wave of panic.   


“What the—?”   


_ “Turn around,” _ Missouri’s voice directed.   


“I just di— Oh.” Dean cut his protest off as he turned around only to be confronted with a giant brick-looking wall. “Huh.” _  
_

_ “That is the wall blocking Sam’s mind.” _   


“I didn’t think it would be so literal,” Dean replied, titling his head curiously. The structure seemed to climb into forever. There was no way around. Great Wall of Sam indeed. _What, no moat and drawbridge, Sammy?_ _  
_

“So how do I get in or whatever?”   


_ “There is a door to your right. If Sam doesn’t perceive you as a threat, it should open to you.” _   


Dean nodded and shoved off toward the carved entryway that stuck out against the rest of the bricks. He stopped in front of it and frowned at the engraving curving around the door. They were in runes he was unfamiliar with—which didn’t make any sense. What language did Sam know that Dean didn’t at least have some passing familiarity with?   


“So what, am I supposed to ‘speak friend and enter’ or something?” he grumbled.   


_ “Or something,” _ Missouri agreed.   


Dean huffed and took a step toward the structure. With one final frown at the engraving, he placed a hesitant hand on the door.   


“Sammy,” he said, feeling stupid. “Hey man, if you can hear me, let me in. I just want to help you, bro.”   


Dean yelped and jerked his hand back when the door suddenly heated up like there was a fire on the other side. He tried not to think about what that could mean.    


_ Not real. Not Dean. Not real. Not Dean. Never Dean. Never again. Not real. Not Dean. _   


Dean dropped to his knees, his hands covering his ears as his brother’s broken voice suddenly filled his head. The heat from the door intensified and Dean had to scoot further back out of its range. Sam’s broken mantra echoed through his mind a few more times before dying away. Dean swallowed.   


“Missouri…”   


_ “What happened?” _   


“I’m not sure. But he wouldn’t let me in.” Dean frowned down at his hand, which was an angry red from the heat. “I don’t think he believed it was me.”   


And that Dean could relate to. He couldn’t count, couldn’t bear to remember, the number of times demons had taunted him using his brother’s face, either to torture or be tortured in front of him when he’d been in Hell. His brother’s screams always echoed loudly in his ears, had caused pain no torture instrument could replicate, and his only defense had been to remind himself that the Sam in front of him wasn’t real. It had become a mantra over the years much like the one Sam had been repeating.    


Dean’s insides tightened at the implication of that.   


At some point, the words had lost their meaning but repeating it still brought some inexplicable measure of comfort he’d been able to hold onto—for those thirty years, anyway. The pressure of having to remember them for so long had only dissipated once he’d seen his brother in that motel room, still alive and without his soul pledged to a crossroads demon. When Sam had thrown his arms around him, the weight of that mantra had lifted.   


It hadn’t been Sam. It had never been Sam. And there had been the proof.    


Now he only needed to show Sam proof that _he_ was the real deal. But how? Wasn’t like he could run through their tried and true supernatural tests in Sam’s noggin. And while he was the world’s foremost expert on Sam Winchester, he had no idea what bit of knowledge would convince his brother that he was real.   


_ “Dean, honey?” _   


“I’ve got to try again, Missouri.”   


_ “Be careful. My power can only do so much to protect you here.” _   


“Roger that.”   


Dean approached the wall carefully, relieved when he noticed the earlier heat was gone. He stood in front of the door and quirked an eyebrow. “What’s the Elvish word for ‘friend,’ anyway?” He snorted. “Yeah, I don’t take you for Gandalf either, Sammy.”   


With an uncomfortable shrug, Dean put his hand to the door again and felt a tendril of _something_ reach out from the wall toward his mind. Dean tried to clear his mind, but found his thoughts wander—   


_ Little Sammy offering Dean the prize from the Lucky Charms box.  _ _  
_

_ Sammy tearing around Bobby’s salvage yard, puppy Rumsfeld galloping behind him, both yelping happily as gravel crunched beneath their feet. _ _  
_

_ Sam giving him the amulet when Dad hadn’t come back for Christmas and the feel of its weight against his chest.  _ _  
_

_ Sam reading a textbook at a table while Dean flicked kernels of popcorn at him from his bed until Sam had wadded up a sheet of notebook paper and launched it back at him.  _ _  
_

_ Sam singing karaoke at some dive bar the first time Dean had gotten him drunk, and Dean carrying him back to the motel and holding his hair back as he puked all night. _ _  
_

_ Sam wordlessly handing Dean his acceptance letter to Stanford, skin pale but eyes bright with determination and back stiff with defiance. _ _  
_

_ Sam back in the front seat of the Impala after two years apart, falling asleep against the window like he’d never left. _ _  
_

Dean gasped and put a hand to his head as the memories came faster and faster making him dizzy. And then they abruptly stopped. Dean was left feeling off-balance and he swayed on his feet, but kept his hand on the door—on his only connection to his brother.   


“ _Dean?”_ Sam’s voice whispered, sounding broken, hesitant, hopeful, and wary all at once. _“Is that really you?”_   


“The one and only, kiddo.”   


For a moment, Dean waited with absolutely no idea what was going to happen.   


And then the door swung open.    


\-----

_ tbc… _

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?" ****

Dean half expected the door to creak like in some cheesy horror movie and couldn’t decide whether or not he was disappointed when it didn’t. There was a gust of warm wind, then cold, and Dean shivered, wrapping his jacket more tightly around himself.   


“He opened the door, Missouri,” Dean said, staring at the dark opening in the wall.    


On the other side of that door were memories that would have destroyed a lesser person than his little brother. Cas’ brief all-expense paid Cage getaway had only been a taste of what Sam had endured and Dean wasn’t likely to forget that experience any time soon—or ever.   


_ “You’re on your own once you get inside,” _ Missouri replied. _“So you get your brother out and I can guide you both back.”_   


Dean nodded, belatedly realizing Missouri probably couldn’t actually see him. He shook his head to himself. This psychic stuff was weird and way out of Dean’s comfort zone.   


_ “Good luck,” _ Missouri added.   


“Right.”   


With a deep breath, Dean stepped through the door. And did a double take when he saw where he was. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—stepping literally back into Hell maybe—but it sure wasn’t a sunny beach.    


“What the—?”   


He whirled around just in time to see the door shut behind him with a resounding thud that echoed through Dean’s bones.   


“Yeah, that’s not creepy at all,” he muttered before turning back around and fully taking in his surroundings.   


He stood on a beach at the edge of a body of water that went on into the horizon—lake, ocean, giant stretching puddle, for all Dean could see. And in Sam’s crazy head, there was just no telling. But the light breeze nipping at Dean’s jacket didn’t carry the salt of an ocean or the freshness of a lake or even the faint remnants of ozone from a rain puddle; rather, there was a familiar metallic tang to the air.    


Dean frowned, looking down at the sand. The grains had taken on a stained crimson color as the water lapped over them. Dean knelt down and cupped a hand in the water, which was a diluted red—and he’d washed out enough bloody wounds and towels to recognize bloody water.   


There was no way that could be good.   


“Sam!” he called out. His voice echoed, though there was nothing for the sound of bounce off of. Yeah, this wasn’t getting any less creepy. “Sammy!”   


Turning slowly, Dean did another assessment of his surroundings. Sam had to be here somewhere; he’d let Dean into his head in the first place. Behind him, the beach ran up against the wall and into the distance on either side of him. The water stretched as far as he could see in front of him. So where was Sam?   


A speck of something out in the water caught Dean’s eye, and he squinted, trying to make it out.   


“An island?” Well, that made about as much sense as anything else at this point. And seemed like the most logical place to find Sam, too.   


_ So how do I get there? _ Dean scrubbed his face through his hands and when he looked up again, there was a rowboat beached about twenty feet away.   


“Okay, there’s no way I missed that before,” he muttered with a shake of his head.    


Once he reached the small boat, Dean took stock of the paddle and room inside just enough for two people. _Huh._ He didn’t know if it was his own doing, Sam’s, or maybe even Missouri’s. But it didn’t really matter. It was a way for him to go looking for his wayward brother and that was the bottom line. He shoved the boat into the water and jumped in.   


When he made to dip the oar in the water, he jerked back from the edge of the boat in surprise before peering back over. Rather than his own reflection, Dean saw Sam—or more precisely, Robo-Sam—he’d recognize that looming posture and stiff facial expression that made a complete mockery of everything that was _Sam_ any day—talking to Samuel Campbell. As the boat glided forward, that image bled into another of Robo-Sam, this time from the day he and Dean had reunited after the djinn poisoning. Robo-Sam was watching an unconscious Dean on the cot he’d woken up on.   


_ _ “What the hell?” he demanded before glancing over the other side of the boat.   


More Robo-Sam. As the boat moved—once Dean remembered to paddle—the images in the water moved from fairly innocuous memories of his brother’s soulless counterpart—talking to Samuel or Gwen or Dean or Bobby—to increasingly more disturbing images. On one side of the boat, Dean found Robo-Sam with a knife to Bobby’s neck while on the other he saw Robo-Sam shooting Sherriff-turned-monster Roy Dobbs.   


Dean looked away, unable to stand the sight of the doppelganger that had masqueraded as his brother for a year and a half. But morbid curiosity had him looking over the edge again with each stroke of the paddle.   


He saw the night Robo-Sam had stood by as he’d been turned into a vampire and the smirk that still haunted his dreams.   


On his left, Robo-Sam beat a cop nearly to death on a roadside as Samuel watched on silently.   


On his right, Robo-Sam shot a pretty bartender a demon was holding a knife to before shooting the demon has well.   


“Oh, I get it,” Dean said when it hit him. “A sea of memories. Nice and literal there, Sammy.”    


These were the memories the Great Wall of Sam had been keeping at bay for all those months. The closer to the shore, the tamer the memories seemed. Which meant the further from shore, the closer to the island he hoped Sam was on, the more visceral the memories became. He tried not to consider just how wide the body of water was or how deep.   


But Sam’s memories of Hell were markedly absent and Dean wasn’t sure what to make of that.   


He peered back over the edge as he saw the night Death had returned Sam’s soul while Robo-Sam struggled against the handcuffs on the cot in the panic room. That had been the first and only time Dean had seen the soulless facsimile show genuine fear before he’d started screaming.   


And then he saw Stull Cemetery.   


To his left, Sam was grabbing Michael/Adam.   


To his right, Sam was falling into the Pit.    


“Oh,” Dean mumbled, falling back into the boat, his insides clenching tightly. These were the beginnings of Sam’s Hell memories. He swallowed and refused to look over the edge of the boat. He couldn’t be pulled into his brother’s suffering; he had to find Sam and get him _out._ He had to focus so he could help Sam.   


Eyes deliberately trained on the horizon rather than the gruesome reflections in the water—on the island that somehow never seemed to get any closer no matter how hard he paddled—Dean called his brother’s name, hoping to hear Sam’s voice again.   


There was no sense of time in this sea that his brother’s mind had created; the sun that beat mercilessly overhead never moved. Dean could have been paddling for minutes or days for all he could tell. His arms burned as though he’d been at work paddling for hours, at least.    


“Sam!” he called again.   


“Dean?”    


Dean’s breath caught in his throat at the sound. The voice had been small and tinged with pain and exhaustion, but it was unmistakably Sam’s.   


“It’s me, Sammy. Where are you?”   


There was a pause and Dean was afraid Sam was gone again. “Here,” the tiny voice called at last, and Dean let out a relieved breath.   


Dean angled the rowboat toward where he thought Sam’s voice had come from. “I’m coming, Sam. I’m coming.”   


“Hurry,” Sam pleaded.   


The weakness of Sam’s voice terrified Dean, so he hurried. Though they weren’t literally in the water, Dean didn’t doubt that the dangers were just as real. After a few more strokes, he could make out the faint sounds of splashing. It struck him with all the subtlety of a two-by-four that Sam was _in_ the bloody, memory-filled water, not on the island after all, and was probably trying to stay afloat.   


“Keep talking to me, Sam. Let me know where you are,” Dean called out, afraid of _not_ hearing Sam’s voice again.   


“I’m—” A pause that probably meant Sam had gone under. “Here,” he finished after a heart-stopping moment.   


Dean breathed again and adjusted his course slightly. He realized the closer he got to his brother, the choppier the water became. The rowboat was rocking more and more, but Dean pressed on. As a wave lifted the boat up, Dean caught sight of hands sticking out of the water, disrupting the reflection of a bloody, writhing Sam on the rack as Lucifer cut into him with a knife, peeling back one layer of flesh at a time.    


Much to Dean’s relief, Sam’s head broke the surface once more and dispelled the horrific scene as the wave crashed and brought the boat back down.   


Through the waves, Dean could see Sam’s bobbing form; his brother was trying desperately to tread water, but kept dipping under the surface for longer and longer stretches of time. The image around him shifted to a different torture every time Sam broke the surface and broke up the previous scene, from skinning to vivisection to burning to…    


Swallowing back bile, Dean tried not to think about how long Sam must have been fighting to stay afloat among those horrors—his memories literally washing over him—especially when Dean’d spent a good portion of that time asleep on Missouri’s couch.   


He shook off the thought as he closed in on Sam. “Sam!”   


His brother’s head jerked in his direction and weary hazel eyes widened and locked on Dean.    


“Dean,” he breathed, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.   


And then he fell below the surface of the water again, visible hands struggling vainly to find purchase on the surface, which showed Sam immobilized on what looked suspiciously like the cot in the panic room while—Dean’s throat went dry—John Winchester slowly and deliberately circled him, lips moving with inaudible words that made Sam flinch as violently as any blade would.   


That was the thing about Hell; it wasn’t just about the physical pain. Demons took great pleasure in brutal mind games—one of Alastair’s first lessons had been breaking the spirit without needing to spill a drop of blood—and Dean knew firsthand that the Devil was the same. It shouldn’t have surprised him but it still felt like a sucker punch seeing Sam tortured in a completely different way.   


Guilt for letting Sam jump in the first place and desperation to pull him from continually reliving the suffering spurred Dean to steer the boat to where Sam had gone under and throw his hand over the edge. He gripped his brother’s wrist and Sam’s hand reflexively grabbed onto his. Dean pulled, hoping he didn’t tip the boat as he hauled Sam up.    


When Sam broke the surface, he used his free hand to try to drag himself into the boat; but there was so little strength left in his arms that he didn’t take much strain off Dean. Dean still appreciated his brother’s effort—it meant Sam was still fighting with whatever he still had.   


With one final heave, Sam’s whole body tumbled over the edge of the boat. The craft rocked ominously a few times and Dean gripped the sides in the hope of steadying it. Thankfully, the boat stayed right side up and Dean was finally able to turn his attention to his brother.   


Sam had curled in on himself, gasping for air and his whole body dripping red-tinged water into the bottom of the boat. Dean shifted forward to touch Sam when he realized his brother was trembling. Dean clenched his jaw, silently cursing Heaven and Hell alike for the _n_ th time, and put a hand on his brother’s elbow. Sam flinched away before opening his eyes and, with some effort, focusing on Dean through the sopping bangs plastered to his face. His eyes widened and he jolted upright. Dean gripped his shoulders to steady him.   


“Easy, Sammy. I gotcha.”   


Sam ran his tongue over his lips as he visibly collected himself. “Dean.”   


“That’s my name.”   


The corner of Sam’s lip quirked upward at that. “How…?”   


Dean shrugged and tapped his brother’s head lightly. “You’re the one who let me in your grapefruit, genius. You tell me.”   


Sam shook his head. “Not that. How—” He blinked. “Dreamroot?”   


Dean snorted. “You remember us having any dreamroot on hand? And no Bela to get a hold of any…”   


He blinked, momentarily startled that the thief’s name came readily to his lips. He hadn’t given Bela Talbot a second thought since Sam had told him she’d had given the Colt to Crowley rather than Lilith after all. He shook it off easily enough. Bitch was in Hell and could stay there for eternity for all he cared, considering she’d shot Sam and tried to kill him.   


At Sam’s expectant look, Dean shrugged and replied, “Missouri.”   


“Missouri?” Sam echoed in surprise, finally swiping the hair out of his eyes and looking like nothing more than a lost six year old.   


Dean nodded. “We headed for her place as soon as, well…” He trailed off at the memory of Cas in that warehouse, thrumming with terrible energy. “She tried to come in and get you herself, but she couldn’t get past the Great Wall of Sam.”   


Sam blinked but didn’t say anything, as if it was taking all his energy just to process this information. Which it probably was, come to think of it. Kid looked wrecked.   


“Anyway, Missouri used some psychic mojo and got me in your head, kiddo. But,” Dean added, tightening his grip on his brother’s shoulder, “you’re the one who let me in.” _Thank you for letting me in._   


Gratitude crossed Sam’s face. “Dean.” _Thank you for coming after me._   


Dean smirked. “Always been my job to come after my pain in the ass little brother, right?” _I’ll always come after you._   


“Yeah.” _Thank you for that._   


“Now what do you say we blow this popsicle stand? Because,” Dean pulled a face, “no offense dude, but only you would have a freaking ocean behind a giant wall in your head.”    


Sam huffed a laugh. A strained, exhausted laugh, but a laugh just the same. “Yeah, well.”   


_ Atta boy, Sammy. Keep fighting just a little longer _ , Dean silently urged his brother. He grabbed the oar and made to turn the boat around and head for shore again.   


“Inside of your head wasn’t much better,” Sam retorted after a minute.   


Dean snorted, remembering when they actually had used dreamroot. “Fair enough.”   


“Before,” Sam added after a moment, “there was a forest. And Bobby’s.”   


“Before?” Dean asked before he made the connection. Before: when the wall had come down and he’d been laid out in the panic room. “Oh.”   


Sam offered a weak smile at that, but Dean took it for what it was, once again blown away by his little brother’s strength to keep fighting in the face of, well, _everything_.   


“And the Impala,” he added as though it were an afterthought.   


Dean couldn’t help grinning at that. “Knew you loved my baby as much as I do, Sammy.”   


“Never,” Sam retorted, but there was a hint of humor in his shadowed eyes. And that was the best thing Dean had seen in a long time.   


Dean took to paddling again, though he never took his gaze off his brother, who’d shut his eyes and was relaxing, seemingly one muscle at a time.   


“What were you doing in the middle of the water, anyway?” Dean ventured.   


Sam cracked one eye open and shrugged stiffly. “I woke up on that island,” he said, nodding behind them to the island Dean had initially been aiming for. “When I saw the wall on the other side of the water, I figured the only way out was to get across.”   


“So you swam?”   


Sam opened his other eye. “Didn’t have another way to get across.” Dean looked down at the boat and back at his brother, who shrugged. “I dunno, man.”   


“So you swam and…” Dean prompted.   


Sam seemed to slink back into himself—a turtle looking for shelter without a shell. “It ended up being further than I could go,” he replied hoarsely, dark emotions crossing his face.   


And Dean understood. The memories got to be too much and he was barely treading water when Dean’d found him, barely keeping the memories from completely consuming him as angel and demon alike warned (no matter that one of those angels and one of those demons had been in on the whole thing—bastards).   


Dean opened his mouth to say something when the water around them started churning violently. Sam’s eyes went wide and his posture stiffened like a board.   


“Sammy?”   


Sam locked his gaze on Dean’s and pure terror crossed his face before a huge wave reared up above them and crashed on top of the boat, capsizing it. It felt like a building dropping on top of them as they were thrown into the water. Dean thought he heard the boat’s wood shattering like claps of thunder. As he was shoved underwater by the pressure, he was struck by the familiar metallic tang of blood as he accidentally swallowed some water. He thought he could smell sulfur as well.   


He spun around wildly, trying to look for Sam, for the surface…   


Only to come face-to-face with himself.    


The other Dean, wavering from the water current, was straddling a dazed and bloodied Sam on some no-tell motel bed. Dean hissed when his doppelganger’s hands gripped tightly around his throat. Sam weakly shoved at the other Dean’s chest before his strength gave out. Sam tried to grab at the other Dean’s hands but couldn’t get any purchase on his fingers.   


Finally, his hands dropped to either side of him, leaving him tense but completely vulnerable. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes, but his stubborn brother refused to let them fall. With a painful jolt, Dean realized what was going on.   


_ “You once did this to me, Sam. Remember?” Lucifer said. “Turnabout is fair play, don’t ‘cha think,  _ little brother _?”_   


Dean knew the effect those words would have on his brother, knew the crippling guilt Sam carried for his actions, and so could pinpoint the exact moment, could see the flash in Sam’s eyes, when he gave up. The tears started falling down Sam’s cheeks and he went completely limp under the Devil in Dean’s skin.    


_ Oh, Sammy. _   


Lucifer smirked, squeezed Sam’s throat one final time, then let go and rolled off. As air returned, Sam coughed painfully, and he tried to curl into himself but couldn’t seem to move. Meanwhile, Lucifer went to the other bed in the room and rummaged around them while Sam sputtered and coughed until he pulled out a wicked-looking razor.   


Dean’s lungs were burning, the taste of blood and sulfur strong in his nose and mouth, but something kept him pinned to this memory, to his brother’s suffering at what looked like his own hands. He wanted—no, needed—to know what happened, but the edges of his vision were tunneling in.   


_ Just a little longer… _   


Something grabbed beneath both his arms and pulled. Dean struggled against it, already being pulled away as Lucifer tapped the razor blade against the palm of his opposite hand. But he stopped struggling when the Devil began speaking again, though the higher they rose, the harder the words were to make out.   


_ “You know Dean was Alastair’s favorite, both before and after he got off the rack. He was a quick learner, your brother. And Alastair had so much to teach.” _   


Dean shuddered, words echoing through his head as he broke the surface. He coughed, gulping in the mercifully fresh air a few moments before looking for his savior.   


Sam was treading water about five feet behind him, looking pale and shaken but determined.   


“Sammy—”   


Sam just shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Dean.”   


“Don’t worry about it?” Dean sputtered. “Don’t worry? The Devil was torturing you using my face! Of course I should worry about it!”   


Sam fixed Dean with what passed for a pointed glare. Kid was too spent to put any real heat behind it. “And how often did they use me to torture you when _you_ were in Hell, Dean?” he asked quietly.    


Dean opened his mouth but Sam cut him off. “And if you say that’s different, I’ll kick your ass.”   


Dean gaped open-mouthed at his kid brother for a long moment before shutting his trap. “Like to see you try,” he muttered. _Message received._ _  
_

Sam nodded and seemed to completely deflate, sinking a bit under the water.    


“Whoa!” Dean hastily made his way to his brother’s side and threw one of Sam’s arms across his shoulders.    


Sam nodded gratefully; it seemed his rescue operation and short lecture (god, what a Sam thing to do in the midst of memories of fucking _Hell_ ) had spent the last dregs of his energy.    


Dean cast around for something, anything that might be useful since there was no way they were going to swim back to the shore like this. A few away, he saw a large chunk of wood that must have formerly been part of the rowboat.   


“Yahtzee.”   


With a few strokes, he was able to grab onto the board. He hoisted Sam’s upper body over the top so his brother’s elbows could rest easily on it and put a steadying hand on Sam’s back. Sam turned to watch him while he set to paddling toward the shore.   


“Dean,” Sam rasped, concern radiating off him.   


“Shut up, Sam.” Sam looked like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the strength, so just nodded instead. “That’s what I thought.”   


“So what happened?” Sam whispered after awhile, after Dean’s legs had started burning and the shore still seemed impossibly far away. “After the Cage?” he clarified at Dean’s raised eyebrow.   


“So you do remember that.”   


Sam nodded, eyes going distant. Dean smacked his shoulder lightly. “Hey, stay with me, Sammy.”    


That seemed to bring Sam back from wherever he’d gone. He shook himself. “Sorry.”   


“Nothing to be sorry for, bro.” At Sam’s nod, Dean shrugged. “We were only gone a few seconds topside.”   


Sam’s eyes widened and Dean related the events that had happened since they’d both collapsed in the warehouse. Dean was just finishing explaining the appearance of the rowboat on the shore when he felt his feet hitting solid ground. Dean exchanged a startled glance with Sam, who’d been just as engaged with listening to the story as Dean had been in telling it.   


Discarding the driftwood, Dean pulled Sam’s arm back across his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist. Sam made a sound of protest—more out of bitchy little brother habit than actual objection, Dean decided—but didn’t shake him off. Together, they plodded to the shore and up to the wall. The inscription Dean had been curious about framed the door on this side as well.   


“Hey Sammy, what language is that?” he asked, nodding at the unfamiliar runes.   


Sam’s face darkened momentarily. “Enochian.”    


\-----

__ tbc…


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?" ****

Discarding the driftwood, Dean pulled Sam's arm back across his shoulders and wrapped an arm around his waist. Sam made a sound of protest—more out of bitchy little brother habit than actual objection, Dean decided—but didn't shake him off. Together, they plodded to the shore and up to the wall. The inscription Dean had been curious about framed the door on this side as well.

“Hey Sammy, what language is that?” he asked, nodding at the unfamiliar runes.

Sam's face darkened momentarily. “Enochian.”

Dean’s stomach turned a few loops at that. “What? Why—?” He trailed off, unsure of the question he wanted to ask or how Sam would take it.

Sam seemed to understand anyway. “Two archangels aren’t going to spend two centuries speaking in English all the time, Dean,” he said, sounding resigned and weary. “You pick some things up.”

“Oh.” Because, really, what do you say to that? It figured, since Sam had always been the language buff of the family. Dean frowned. “But you’re not, like,” he sputtered, waving his free arm around like he might latch onto the right words, “speaking it all the time or anything.”

Sam snorted. “No.”

“So why’s it on the wall into your head?”

Dean felt Sam shrug tiredly. “Beats me.” Dean raised an eyebrow and Sam sighed. “Enochian is an ancient language of power,” he said after a moment, clearly casting around for some kind of explanation to appease Dean. He was supposed to be the one with the answers, after all. “I guess subconsciously it seemed the most powerful deterrent from my mind.”

He cocked his head to the side as he looked at the wall. “Not that it did much good,” he added quietly.  


Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut at the matter-of-fact addendum. Shoving the pang of guilt back down as far as he could, he made to move to the door, but Sam didn’t budge. Dean looked back at him curiously.  
  
“Sammy?”  


Sam swallowed, starting to tremble slightly again. “Dean, I—”

Dean tightened his grip around his brother’s waist. “What is it?"   


“I don’t know if I can do this.”   


“Do what?”   


“Fight all of this,” he said, turning back to look at the sea of formerly walled off memories, “out there. In the real world.” He shook his head lightly. “I’m not strong like you.”   


Dean snorted in disbelief and poked his brother in the head. “You’re a moron.”   


Sam started at that. “What?”   


“Whadda ya mean, _what_? You’ve been fighting it this whole time.”   


“But—”   


Dean cut him off. “No, you already beat it, Sammy.” At Sam’s blank look, Dean pressed on. “The wall came down completely and you made it back. You woke up when every angel and demon said you wouldn’t. And you made it all the way to freaking Kansas.”   


“I couldn’t leave you alone,” he murmured, ducking his head.   


Dean felt a surge of affection for his brother run through him. “And _I’m_ not leaving _you_ alone.”   


Sam looked up at that with a frown.   


“Shit, I’ve only been able to deal with my memories of Hell because of you. No chance I’d let you do this by yourself.”   


“Dean—”   


Dean cleared his throat and decided that since they were in Sam’s head—about as far from reality as anyone could get, really—none of this counted toward his chick flick moment quota for the year. Even if the brother-coming-back-from-Hell exception wasn’t in place.   


“Sammy, when you were…I mean, after the wall…” He swallowed, trying to get the words to form around the lump in his throat as images of Sam collapsing in that alley and lying prone on the panic room cot flashed through his mind. He fixed his gaze on the wall in the vain hope the monolith might steady him.   


“I thought I’d lost you. For good.” He shook his head. “I’ve never felt so goddamn helpless.” Cold Oak came pretty damn close, but a demon deal was out of the question this time and there were no angels likely to step in for Sam’s sake.   


“But you left my gun. And the address,” Sam said after moment, interrupting Dean’s dark reverie.   


Dean nodded. “I may not have faith in God—whichever one,” he amended with a grimace, “or angels or whatever. But I trust in my family. I have to.” Dean squeezed Sam’s wrist that was draped over his shoulder. “And I know you can do this.”   


“Not alone.”   


“Not alone,” Dean agreed. “Never alone,” he added in a whisper. He felt more than saw Sam smile and snorted in relief. “Alright you big girl? Satisfied? I feel like I’m growing girl parts here.” He paused, mock horror dawning on his face. “And in your noggin, you never know.” He shuddered. “So can we get this show on the road?”   


Sam huffed a tired laugh and it was the best sound Dean thought he’d ever heard. “Yeah, okay.”   


Together they hobbled to the wall and in one motion each grabbed at the door handle and pushed it open.   


\-----   


Dean gasped as his eyes flew open and he nearly toppled over from his chair. He barely registered Missouri’s and Bobby’s surprised looks before Sam was also gasping awake on the couch below him. Sam flailed like a fish out of water for a moment—or would have if his limbs were cooperating and more flopped weakly than anything—until Dean put his hands on his brother’s shoulders.   


“Hey, easy, Sammy.”    


Sam was tense beneath his hands, but after a moment he swallowed and dropped back into the cushions. Dean patted his shoulder lightly. His eyes met Sam’s and he saw the recognition and understanding there. And love.   


And it hit Dean like that tidal wave that he’d been the one to bring Sam out of Hell. Him. He’d been able to do that for his haunted and traumatized little brother. And damn if that wasn’t a humbling feeling.   


“Welcome back,” a new voice said, breaking the spell.   


Dean blinked and looked up at Missouri, who was watching them both with a careful smile on her face, like she wanted to be happy to see them both but was waiting to see what Dean had managed to bring back from Sam’s mind.   


“Sam?” Bobby said quietly, leaning forward at the other end of the sofa.   


Sam was still tense and his throat worked a minute, but he managed a small nod. “Hey Bobby.” His voice was rough from disuse, but it was the genuine Sammy article.   


“Damn, it’s good to see you, son,” Bobby said, patting Sam’s foot.   


“Here, honey,” Missouri said, holding a cup of water out for Sam.   


Sam blinked and looked over at the psychic. “Thanks, Missouri,” he said and Dean was that he didn’t have to explain where they were and why a second time. Sam tried to reach for the cup but could barely lift his arms. Missouri made a fond _tsk_ ing sound and held the cup to Sam’s lips. Sam gave her an appreciative nod before drinking.   


Once Sam had had enough, he collapsed back into the sofa, eyes drifting closed. Dean squeezed his brother’s shoulder and Sam forced his eyes back open, though they looked a little glazed, like he was seeing something else.   


Worry gnawed at Dean’s gut—worry that his brother was already slipping back into those memories he’d only just escaped from. He squeezed a little more tightly and Sam blinked, his gaze clearing and focusing back in the here and now.   


“How you doin’, Sam?” Bobby asked after a long moment.   


Sam shrugged. “Let me get back to you on that.” He tried for a smile that didn’t quite make it, but the effort was there. “But I’m here.”   


_ I’m here _ . Fucking music to Dean’s ears.   


“Thanks to the best big brother in the world,” he added with the shit-eating grin that he knew got on Sam’s nerves.   


But Sam just nodded. “Yeah.” And Dean felt that humbled feeling all over again. Stupid grateful little brother taking the fun out of everything.   


Dean cleared his throat and Sam looked over at Missouri. “Dean told me what you did for me.” His lips twitched. “For us,” he amended. Missouri raised an eyebrow at Dean, who shrugged. It was true. “Thank you.”   


Missouri’s smile deepened from the cautious one to something genuine. “I promised your daddy a long time ago that I would do whatever I could to help you boys out. And I’m happy to.” She tapped Sam’s shoulder lightly and glanced up at Dean. “I just wish you wouldn’t only show up on my doorstep when there’s a crisis.”   


Sam hunched his shoulders sheepishly and Dean’s lip quirked upward as he shrugged. When Dean looked back at his brother, he noticed slight pain lines at his eyes—the oh-so-familiar lines Dean had learned to recognize as the precursors to a migraine or, years ago, vision—and frowned in concern. Sam, though, caught his gaze and shook his head minutely. _It’s nothing._   


“You know these boys, Missouri,” Bobby piped up. “They live from one crisis to the next. Wouldn’t know what to do without one.”    


“Hey!” Dean objected, more on principle than anything since it was mostly true.    


Missouri chuckled and nodded. “So it seems.” She glanced back down at Sam a moment before turning to Dean again. “We should let Sam get some rest. I think he’s about had it.”   


Dean looked down to see Sam’s eyes drooping as he struggled and failed to keep them open. The stress from the last few days seemed to be catching up with him all at once. “Yeah.”   


“There’s a guest room upstairs if you feel up to it, Sam,” Missouri offered. “Otherwise I can get something more comfortable for the couch down here.”   


“Don’t trouble yourself,” Sam said, trying to push himself to lean on his elbows. “Guest room is fine.”   


Missouri nodded and Dean pushed himself off his chair. He leaned over Sam and carefully helped his brother to his feet, throwing one of his brother’s arms across his shoulders. Taking more and more of Sam’s weight—and his brother was not a lightweight, in his freaky head or in reality, Dean groused to himself without any heat—with each step, Dean managed to steer his fading brother to the stairs.   


Bobby raised an eyebrow in an offer to help as they passed, but Dean shook his head. “Don’t think the staircase is wide enough for all three of us,” he said.   


Bobby nodded knowingly, seeing that Dean needed to do this himself. Dean spared him a small smile in appreciation before continuing on their agonizingly slow journey up the stairs. By the time they’d reached the steps, Missouri and Bobby were chatting away about meaningless things in the kitchen. Dean appreciated the display of privacy. It was often hard to remember there were other people in the world that cared about the Winchesters, but damn if it wasn’t a good feeling.   


By the time they reached the guest room at the end of the hallway, Sam was nodding off on his feet. “C’mon Sasquatch, only a few more feet to a nice, comfy bed. Then you can crash to your big girly heart’s content.”   


Sam moaned and Dean grinned. “Yeah, thought so.”   


Dean stopped in the doorway in surprise when he noticed both their duffels sitting on the floor at the end of the bed. Last he’d seen, they’d been in the trunk of the Impala. A sudden bolt of worry for his baby hit him square in the chest and he swallowed.   


“Dean,” Sam murmured, swaying unsteadily.   


“Right.”   


He maneuvered Sam to the edge of the bed and helped his brother wrangle clumsily out of his jacket and overshirt. He eased Sam under the covers with a sense of nostalgia—this could have been any night from their childhood with him and Sam alone in some crap motel room, Dad on a hunt, and Dean’s only job being looking after his little brother.   


At least back then Sammy _had_ been little.   


But, as Sam shut his eyes and almost immediately drifted off, Dean decided, other things never really changed. Looking after Sammy would always be his job, the one he took most seriously and the most pride in.   


Scrubbing his face through his hands, Dean rounded the bed and flopped down on the other side, pushing his back against the headboard, ready to sit vigil over his sleeping brother in case Hell decided to make an appearance in his unconscious. He toed off his boots and leaning his head back against the wall and tried not to think too hard about the memories he’d seen in Sam’s head.   


But he kept going back to the sight of his hands around his brother’s throat and the way Sam had gone completely limp—accepting—and shivered.   


He pushed the thought away with as much force as possible. It wasn’t him, had never been him. But that didn’t change what Sam had seen, had been tortured with…   


Swallowing, he glanced over at Sam, watched the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. The differences between this sleep and Sam’s Hell-induced coma were obvious; before, Sam’s chest had barely seemed to move at all, causing Dean to check his breathing more than once. Before, Sam had been unnaturally still, his muscles taut, and now he was curled slightly and relaxed.   


Dean looked up when Bobby cleared his throat from the doorway and nodded a silent greeting. He frowned when he realized the light coming in through the curtained window out of the corner of his eye had dimmed considerably since he’d gotten Sam settled.   


“How is he?” the older hunter asked quietly.   


“Sleeping,” Dean replied needlessly. At Bobby’s prodding look, Dean added, “No seizures or nightmares or freak outs of any kind.” _Yet._ “He seems really okay, considering.”    


Bobby nodded, eyes lingering on the sleeping Winchester for a moment before turning back to Dean. “How’re _you_ doing?”   


Dean snorted. “Sammy’s mind is a crazy place.”   


“You don’t say,” Bobby deadpanned.   


Dean shook his head, thinking of that sea of memories that Sam had nearly drowned in. He’d come way too close to losing him to Hell. Again. “I can’t even—”   


But Bobby cut him off. “Then don’t. What goes on in that boy’s head should stay there, as far as I’m concerned.” The words were gruff, but there was sincerity and even a hint of amusement in them.   


“Yeah, probably a good idea.” He shrugged. “I’m okay, Bobby. I’ve got Sam back and that’s the more than I was hoping for just a few hours ago, ya know?”   


Bobby inclined his head, accepting the answer. “You hungry? You’ve been up here awhile and Missouri’s cooked up some dinner.”   


Dean glanced down at Sam. He didn’t feel comfortable leaving his side; not yet anyway. “Nah, I’m good.”   


“Dean Winchester, you need to eat something!” Missouri called from downstairs. Dean pictured her wielding a wooden spoon or something equally ridiculous and was equal parts amused and terrified.   


He exchanged a startled glance with Bobby. “I’d listen to her,” Bobby said.   


“Yeah, Missouri can be scary.”   


“Watch your tongue, boy!”   


Bobby snorted a laugh. “At least come down and grab a little something. Bring it back up.”   


“Yeah, alright.” Dean paused as Bobby turned from the door. “Hey, Bobby?” The older man glanced back. “Where’d our duffels come from?” Dean asked, nodding at the bags at the end of the bed.   


“I grabbed them from the Impala before picking your asses up.”   


“Oh,” was all Dean could manage. His baby was still upturned outside some factory in Bumfuck, Kansas, and there was no way in hell he could leave Sam alone to deal with, well, Hell.   


“We’re only a couple hours out,” Bobby said, seeming to read Dean’s mind. “We’ll take care of it, Dean.” He crossed his arms. “I have a few connections I can shake up to see about towing ‘er back to South Dakota so she’ll be waiting when Sam’s up to headin’ back.”   


“Bobby—” The idea of a stranger towing his baby that far turned Dean’s insides.   


The older man shook his head. “I’d rather do it myself, too, son. But it’s a long drive from here to South Dakota and back.”   


“You don’t have to come back,” Dean argued. “We can meet you back there in a few days. We’ve got Sam’s car.”   


Bobby snorted. “You really think I’d let you two make that drive on your own right now? With your head elsewhere? Not a chance.”    


Dean ran a hand through his hair, recognizing he wasn’t going to win this argument. If Bobby trusted whoever he called, that would have to be enough. It normally was when it came to a hunt, but this was his baby and Dean didn’t take chances with her.   


“Fine.”   


“Fine?”   


Dean nodded tiredly and threw his feet over the edge of the bed. “Fine.” He pushed himself to his feet and, once he was satisfied Sam was still asleep, followed Bobby from the room. “Better than what I’ve got,” he said as they descended the steps.   


“Which is nothing,” Bobby surmised.   


“Which is nothing,” Dean confirmed.   


Missouri looked up and nodded to herself at the hunters’ arrival. She pointed to a tray she’d made up—a couple of sandwiches, bowls of soup, and tall glasses of water.    


“I figured you’d want to stay with Sam,” she said at Dean’s unspoken question. “And there’s a little something for when he wakes up.”   


Dean nodded, appreciative of the gesture. He was reaching for the tray when a loud crashing echoed through the house. Dean’s older brother instincts kicked into high gear and he was up the stairs two at a time before his brain had caught up. He tore down the hallway and skidded into the guest room doorway, where he saw the empty bed with the covers thrown haphazardly off.   


Sam was huddled in the far corner, knees drawn up to his chest and his hands covering his ears. His eyes were shut tightly and he was trembling violently.   


Dean’s stomach dropped. Of course Sam would have a flashback the moment Dean left.   


“What the—” Bobby said, trailing off as he got a look in the room from the hallway.   


“Oh dear,” Missouri murmured from beside him.   


Dean approached his brother slowly, afraid of spooking him, but Sam didn’t seem to register that he was there. He knelt down and, after a moment’s hesitation, put a gentle hand on Sam’s knee. “Hey, Sammy.”   


Sam’s trembling increased slightly but he didn’t react otherwise. That didn’t bode well. “Hey, you’re not there, not anymore. Remember? You’re out. You’re safe. At Missouri’s.”   


Sam shook his head, his hair falling across his face. “No,” he moaned. “Too much. Too loud. Can’t tell.”   


Dean didn’t like the sound of that. “C’mon little brother,” he pleaded. “You gotta talk to me. Tell me what you see. It’s not real.”   


Sam’s eyes opened so suddenly that Dean nearly fell backwards in surprise. “Not what I see,” he whispered.   


Dean frowned. “Sam?”   


“It’s not what I see,” he said hoarsely. “It’s what I hear.” He screwed his eyes shut again with a groan and curled his chin into his chest.   


“Sam, hey,” Dean said, tightening his grip on Sam’s knee. “What does that mean?”   


Sam bit his lip, reminding Dean of nothing so much as when little Sammy was feeling sick and would curl into as small a ball as possible. Dean would always have to coax him out of that ball to get him to drink something or get to the bathroom.   


Dean leaned in toward Sam and froze when his brother whispered in his ear, “Too many voices.”   


“What voices?” Dean whispered back and Sam swallowed. “You gotta talk to me here.”   


“They’re all talking. Yelling. So angry. And scared. So loud.”   


“Who’s talking, Sam? What are you hearing?”   


Sam’s head jerked backwards and banged into the wall. Dean jumped before grabbing the nape of his brother’s neck with his free hand to steady him. Sam’s eyes were open but looking beyond the guest room.   


“Hey, hey. Look at me, kiddo.”   


After a long moment, Sam locked gazes with Dean and, for the first time since Dean had entered the room, his eyes seemed clear—pained but clear.   


“What are you hearing, Sam?” Dean repeated, giving his knee and neck a supportive squeeze with each hand.   


“The angels,” he said hoarsely. “Speaking Enochian.”   


\-----

_ tbc…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?" ****

After a long moment, Sam locked gazes with Dean and, for the first time since Dean had entered the room, his brother’s eyes seemed clear—pained but clear.  
  
“What are you hearing, Sam?” Dean repeated, giving his knee and neck a supportive squeeze with each hand.  
  
“The angels,” he said hoarsely. “Speaking Enochian.”  
  
For a moment, Dean wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. But the look of absolute misery on Sam’s face snapped him back into action. “What do you mean, the angels?”  
  
“I can hear them,” Sam replied with a wince. “So many, so loud.”  
  
Dean looked back at Missouri and Bobby, who appeared as flabbergasted as Dean felt. Dean swallowed and turned back to his brother, tried to reason out what this development could mean. “What, you can hear them like Anna could?”  
  
Sam snorted wearily at that, which Dean took as a positive that Sam was remaining coherent, anyway. “Anna was an angel, Dean.”  
  
“And you’re a bitch, good point.”  
  
“Such a jerk,” Sam huffed under his breath.  
  
Dean would have smiled at that if not for Sam’s moan of pain that followed. Sam shut his eyes again and Dean squeezed the nape of his neck. “Hey, stay with me, Sammy.”  
  
Pain-glazed hazel eyes slit open and Dean figured he’d take what he could get. “Can you understand what the angels are saying?” Dean asked. When Anna, pre-angelfied Anna anyway, had been attuned to angel radio, she’d heard the angels talking about him and Sam, had even given them a heads up on what was coming, so Dean figured it was worth a shot.  
  
But Sam shook his head. “Too many voices,” he said, echoing his words from moments before. “All so loud,” he added, voice cracking as he screwed his eyes shut again.  
  
“When did it start?” Dean asked, patting Sam’s trembling knee. “When’d you start hearing them, Sam?”  
  
Sam’s throat worked for a few moments before he answered. “Soon as…got back,” he mumbled.  
  
Dean remembered Sam spacing out and the familiar headache lines right after he’d come to and realized belatedly that those must have been precursors to this. _Shit._ If it wasn’t one thing, it was a-fucking-nother. Why couldn’t the world cut his kid brother a break, dammit?  
  
Sam whimpered—god, Dean hated that broken sound; it tore right through to his own shredded soul—and with a sudden shudder, fell forward bonelessly. Dean let out a surprised yelp as Sam’s forehead collided with his shoulder blade. Dean scrambled to steady his brother, but found him completely limp. He patted his brother’s back and forced himself not to check for a stab wound because he was definitely _not_ thinking about a certain night in the mud when he’d held his brother similarly.  
  
“Sam?” No answer. “Sammy?”  
  
“He’s out,” Bobby said, coming up from behind. Considering Sam’s trembling had all but stopped, that seemed like a mercy. “We should probably get him back to bed.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Little help here?” He turned to look back to Bobby and got a face-full of Sammy-hair for his trouble. He blew out a breath and Sam’s hair tickled under his nose. Dean pulled a face. _Needs a freakin’ haircut._  
  
Together Dean and Bobby managed to maneuver Sam back onto the bed. Dean pulled the covers up to Sam’s chest and felt his insides tighten at the way Sam’s features had gone slack, the pain lines from moments before completely gone; they’d eased into a much smoother, more peaceful expression. Dean ran a hand through his brother’s mop of hair before remembering he had an audience.  
  
He cleared his throat and turned back to the rest of the room. Missouri had taken a seat at the desk against the far wall, crossing her ankles and entwining her fingers while Bobby leaned against the wall by the doorway.  
  
“So, what now?” Bobby asked finally.  
  
Dean deflated—all the air rushing out of his body at once—like Bobby’s words had made the situation real and none of them had any idea what to do about it. Dean felt dizzy for a moment.  
  
“What could cause him to be hearing angels?” he asked the room at large after awhile.  
  
“How’d he know it’s angels he’s hearing?” Bobby asked in turn. Dean’s eyes narrowed, but the older hunter threw up his hands, placating. “I’m just trying to get a grip on the situation, Dean.”  
  
Dean sighed, knew Bobby was right. He hadn’t been in Sam’s head, hadn’t seen what Dean had. “He spent nearly two centuries locked up with two archangels who weren’t speaking English all the time,” Dean said wearily, looking back at his brother. “His exact words were, ‘You pick some things up,’” he added with air quotes.  
   
Bobby let off a string of curses under his breath that seemed appropriate enough that Missouri didn’t even bat an eyelash.  
   
“Still doesn’t explain why he’s hearing angels,” Dean said. “He said there were too many voices, which rules out memories of the Cage.” He shrugged. “The only other time we came across someone hearing angels, she ended up being an angel herself.” An angel that had ended up trying to—and succeeded, at least temporarily—kill Sam. But that was neither here nor there, Dean told himself firmly.  
  
“Why’d you think she’d been able to hear angels?” Bobby asked.  
  
Dean shrugged. “We had no idea. Maybe that she was psychic, but that didn’t seem to fit.”   
  
And then Dean’s jaw dropped as he realized what he’d just said. Bobby’s eyes lit up in comprehension at the same time. They turned to Missouri in one motion.   
  
“Missouri, could this be because Sam’s powers are screwy?” Dean demanded.  
  
The psychic looked startled at the sudden scrutiny and glanced between both hunters a moment before collecting herself. She glanced over at Sam with a thoughtful frown.   
  
“You have to understand,” she said, rising to her feet. “This angel business is all new to me.” She chuckled as she made her way to Sam’s side. “You boys do seem to thrive on jumping into the middle of the unknown.”  
  
Dean relinquished his spot at Sam’s hip to her and took up his post on the other side of the bed so Sam was never out of his reach. “It tends to find us,” he defended lamely.  
  
Missouri clucked her tongue once but turned all her attention to the unconscious Winchester. “My point is that I have no experience with anything like this. I’m only guessing here.”  
  
“I’ll take your guesses over a lot of people’s certainties, Missouri,” Dean replied instantly. This woman actually cared about him and his brother and that counted for a lot as far as he was concerned.   
  
Missouri put a hand to Sam’s forehead and closed her eyes. Her brow furrowed and a moment later her eyes flew back open. She pulled her hand back as if she’d been burned.  
  
Dean frowned. That couldn’t be good. The psychic looked up and locked gazes with Dean. There was something unreadable in her eyes that made Dean nervous.  
  
“What is it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “What’d you find?”  
  
“I could hear a lot of voices, very loud. Some sound angry, some scared. And they were speaking a language I don’t know,” she replied.   
  
“Enochian,” Dean stated, feeling certain of it.  
  
Missouri shrugged. “It could be. I just don’t know. But he does seem to be—”   
  
“Tuning into angel radio?”  
  
“Most likely.”  
  
Dean looked at his brother’s lax face. He looked peaceful, unlike when he’d been conscious and hearing the voices at full volume. “Do you think he hears them in his sleep?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Missouri replied gently. “I heard them when I came in contact with Sam, but he could just be a conduit for the voices.”   
  
“But I didn’t hear anything when I touched him.”  
  
“You also don’t have the gift, Dean,” Missouri reminded him.  
  
“So this _does_ have to do with his powers,” Bobby said. He’d moved to stand at the end of the bed, the patriarch at the head of his little hunting family.  
  
Missouri let out a light huff. “The best I can guess, yes. If I can hear the voices through Sam when someone without the gift cannot, seems logical.”   
  
“But how?” Dean asked. “Before you said he was just…”  
  
“Projecting,” Bobby finished when Dean trailed off.  
  
“Right, that,” Dean said, throwing a look at Bobby, who was deliberately not looking at him. “Why would he go from projecting to hearing angels?”  
  
“I also said his powers were out of whack,” Missouri retorted. “That makes them unpredictable. Whatever you brought Sam out of in his head, it triggered this.”  
  
Dean’s breath caught in his throat. “Wait, is this _my_ fault?” he whispered.  
  
Missouri’s eyes widened. “What? Honey, no. In no way is this your fault.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“If you hadn’t done what you did, Sam would still be trapped in his own mind,” the psychic reminded him.  
  
Dean flashed to the sight of Sam nearly drowning in that bloody sea of memories and shuddered. If he hadn’t done what he did, Sam would have drowned and have been locked in his mind—in Hell—possibly forever.  
  
 _You did what you had to. He needed you,_ he told himself. But that didn’t change his brother’s suffering in the here and now.  
  
“Sam came back with his memories intact, right?” Bobby said. Dean turned his gaze to the older man and nodded. “It must have been his memories of hearing angels for so long combined with his,” he paused, waving at his head, “whatever going on.”  
  
“It’s possible he became sensitive to the language over time so his gift instinctively reached out for something familiar,” Missouri added.  
  
“And with Lucifer and Michael still in the Cage,” Dean said as realization dawned on him, “he tuned in on other angels.”  
  
“But his powers are out of balance so he has no way of filtering the all voices he instinctively reached out to. I doubt he even knows he did it at all."   
  
Bobby let out a low whistle at that and Dean found himself having trouble forming words as he worked out what all this guesswork meant for his brother.  
  
“So what can we do?” he said finally. Missouri and Bobby looked at him and Dean crossed his arms. “All this guessing is well and good, but what can we _do_ about it?”  
  
“Is there a way to help Sam filter what he’s hearing?” Bobby asked Missouri.  
  
The psychic frowned. “It’s all related to Sam’s abilities. There’s nothing I can do to fix it for him, but…” She trailed off thoughtfully.  
  
“But?” Dean demanded.  
  
“But there might be a way to help him bring his own powers back into balance,” she said. “The ins and outs of psychic powers are unique to each person so it’s difficult to teach. Things that help me may or may not help Sam, might even harm him. There’s just no way to know.”  
  
“We have to try something,” Dean growled. If there was even an inkling of something that might help Sam, they had to try.  
  
Missouri nodded. “Of course, Dean. I’m not saying we shouldn’t. Or that I won’t,” she amended at Dean’s continued frown. “But I’ll need to do a little research.”   
  
“So what we need is time,” Bobby concluded.  
  
Missouri nodded. Dean opened his mouth to say something when there was a small moan from the bed. All three of them froze and turned to Sam, who seemed to be slowly waking up.  
  
“Shit,” Dean cursed. He turned hurriedly to Missouri. “Would it be safe to sedate him?”  
  
She blinked at him, bewildered. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Missouri, I’m not going to let my brother suffer needlessly. If it takes knocking him out until we’ve gotten a plan together, then that’s what I’ll do.” He clenched his jaw. “Unless it’ll hurt him.”  
  
“He didn’t seem to be hearing the voices while he slept,” Missouri replied helplessly. “But I don’t know for sure, Dean.”   
  
Dean shook his head. That would have to be enough. Sam was shifting and the sounds of pain were becoming more distinct with every passing moment. He rounded the bed and sifted through the duffels Bobby had recovered until he found the med kit. He opened the case and found the small supply of sedatives he’d nicked from some hospital a few months back after Sam’s first seizure—just in case. With practiced motions, he assembled the syringe and made his way back to his brother’s side.  
  
Sam’s eyes slit open and the pain lines were forming again.  
  
“D’n?” he slurred, still mostly out of it.  
  
“I’m here, Sammy,” Dean said as he cleaned off a spot on Sam’s arm with a disinfectant wipe. “Just take it easy.”  
  
“Wha—” Sam broke off with a moan as Dean slid the needle into his brother’s arm and dosed him with the sedative.  
  
Dean held his breath and, moments later, Sam’s eyes slid shut again and the lines around his eyes eased away. He let out a sigh of relief before turning back to Missouri and Bobby.  
  
“I’d rather not keep him drugged up any longer than necessary.”  
  
“I’ll get looking,” Missouri replied, rising to her feet.  
  
“I’ll help,” Bobby offered but Missouri leveled a stare at the hunter.  
  
“No offense, Singer, but how much do you know about psychics?”  
  
Bobby’s mouth moved a few silent moments before he sighed. “I know a few of them.”  
  
Missouri chuckled. “Exactly. No offense, but this is precision work.” She turned to include Dean in the next part of her statement. “You’ll both do me and Sam the most good if you get some rest.” She glanced toward the window. It was dark out. “And you should do something about that arm, Dean.”  
  
He blinked right as his injured arm gave a painful twinge. Dean clenched his jaw against the pain and grasped at the limb. With all his concern for looking after Sam—and spending some quality time in his brother’s head—he hadn’t given his arm much thought. It was an inconvenience when Sam was in trouble.  
  
“Let me look at that, Dean,” Bobby offered as Missouri left the room for her library.  
  
Dean slumped down onto the edge of the bed while Bobby grabbed the open med kit and sat down next to him, careful not to jostle Sam.  
  
Dean winced as Bobby carefully poked and prodded the bruised and swollen limb. Sam’s touch was softer than Bobby’s, deft with those long fingers of his and sure after years of examining his brother, but Bobby knew what he was doing so Dean did his best not to make a noise of complaint.  
  
“Doesn’t look broken,” Bobby said gruffly, going into the kit. “Sprained, anyway.”  
  
“Falling off a balcony will do that,” Dean replied with a grimace. He frowned at Bobby, remembering. “You fell down those stairs pretty hard. How’re you doin’?”   
  
Bobby waved off the concern with his free hand. “I’ve tripped on my own feet down steps that hurt more,” he snorted.  
  
“And would that be before or after a night with Jim and Jack?” Dean asked, thinking about the staircases in Bobby’s house and the number of bottles that normally populated the place.  
  
Meanwhile, Bobby finally found the wrap in the kit and set to work on Dean’s arm. “What do you take me for, idjit?” he grumbled, before adding, “After.” Dean couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him and Bobby glowered as he worked, but Dean noticed the corners of his lips twitching.

  
 -----

  
At first Dean wasn’t sure what pulled him from sleep. He hadn’t even remembered falling asleep, actually. His eyes opened drowsily and noticed the grey light of dawn inching across the ceiling. When had that happened?  
  
Last he remembered, it had been dark when Bobby had finished working on his arm and given him some pain killers. Dean had dry swallowed them and scooted back against the headboard to keep an eye on Sam. Bobby had retired downstairs to the couch after Dean had refused his offer to keep an eye on Sam while Dean slept.  
  
For awhile, Dean had watched Sam in the clutches of drugged sleep and hoped this was the last time he’d need to sedate his brother just to keep him from suffering. He must have fallen asleep at some point, though, because he realized he was lying on his back and a blanket had been dropped on top of him. Huh.  
  
He glanced over at Sam and immediately realized what had interrupted his sleep. Sam was making small, fearful sounds as he slept. For a moment, Dean thought his brother was hearing the angels again and a wave of panic flared up, but then he recognized the usual signs of a nightmare. Dean bolted upright and as Sam groaned and his fingers clenched and unclenched around the blankets. The lines at his eyes were back and his forehead was coated in sweat.  
  
This was familiar—he’d been dealing with Sam’s insomnia and nightmares since childhood. This was a routine Dean knew the steps to. Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder lightly. “Sammy, hey.”  
  
Sam moaned again and Dean gripped his shoulder more tightly and shook. “Sam, wake up. It’s just a dream.”  
  
Sam was normally a light sleeper and it rarely took much to wake him up. There were times he’d wake up from a particularly nasty dream thrashing or crying, so Dean was ready to move whichever direction he needed. But Sam didn’t wake.  
  
Dean grabbed Sam’s other shoulder and winced as the motion jarred his wrapped arm but still shook his brother more insistently. “Sammy, wake up.”  
  
Sam’s head rolled against the pillow, like he was fighting against whatever was happening in his sleep. Dean was reminded alarmingly of those first few weeks after Jess’ death and the tortured dreams Sam had battled; he’d only slept more than an hour or two when he’d practically dropped from exhaustion after a hunt and then it had been hard to pull him from those nightmares.  
  
And that’s when Dean realized what was going on. The sedative was keeping Sam unconscious, thwarting all attempts to wake him up. “Shit, shit, shit,” Dean hissed.  
  
He shook Sam’s shoulder once more out of desperation, though he knew he wouldn’t get a reaction. “Sammy, please. Wake up, man.”  
  
Dean cast around the room for something, anything, that might help him wake his brother up but came in empty. “Missouri!” he called finally.  
  
Hurried footsteps approached moments later and the psychic appeared in the doorway. “What is it, Dean?” she asked. She looked a bit disheveled, like she’d been up all night—which she probably had, Dean realized somewhere in the back of his mind before shaking the useless thought. Her eyes immediately went to Sam’s unsettled form.  
  
“He’s having a nightmare and won’t wake up,” Dean replied, voicing rising in worry as Missouri hurried to Sam’s side. “I think the sedative’s keeping him under.”  
  
Missouri nodded as she put a hand to Sam’s sweaty forehead. “He’s struggling to wake up,” she agreed. “But he can’t.”  
  
“Can you help him?”  
  
Rather than answer, Missouri pursed her lips and shut her eyes, going completely still. The air crackled for a brief moment and then Sam’s eyes flew open. He jackknifed and gasped for air, eyes wild. Missouri smartly backed out of Sam’s arm range quickly and Dean immediately grabbed his shoulders and steadied him.  
  
“Hey, easy.”  
  
A moment later, Sam’s eyes found Dean’s face and he swallowed. “Dean?”  
  
“Right here, Sam.”  
  
He nodded but was still panting harshly. “Easy, kiddo. Breathe. You were having a nightmare.”   
  
“What?” Sam looked confused at that, though considering the drugs still in his system, it wasn’t surprising.  
  
“Nightmare,” Dean repeated. “But it’s alright.”  
  
But Sam shook his head, bangs catching in the sweat on his face. “No, s’not alright.”  
  
“What do you mean, Sam?” Missouri asked softly. Dean had the sinking suspicion that she knew more than she was letting on, though.  
  
Sam blinked and looked over, taking in the psychic’s appearance a moment before nodding to himself. “Not alright,” he said again. “Not a nightmare.”  
  
Dean’s insides clenched. “Then what was it?”  
  
Sam’s eyes were haunted and he looked completely wrecked. It was a disturbingly familiar expression Dean hadn’t seen on his brother’s face in years, and Dean knew the answer before Sam spoke. His brother swallowed again then said the word Dean was dreading.  
  
“Vision.”

\-----

  
tbc…


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?" ****

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, still trembling from the remnants of the vision. It had been so long since he’d last had a vision he’d forgotten how just how weak and shaky they left him. The throbbing inside his head and sick feeling, though, he hadn’t forgotten. Dean sat next to him, close enough to brush his shoulder without crowding, a constant protective presence that Sam appreciated more than he could ever say.   


They both looked up when Missouri reentered the room with Bobby on her heels. The older man frowned as he leaned against the wall next to Missouri’s resumed seat at the desk, but his eyes softened in concern when he looked at Sam.    


“Okay Sammy, what’d you see?” Dean asked, once everyone had settled. He’d asked Missouri to get Bobby the moment Sam had calmed, figuring it would be easiest on Sam to tell everyone about it at once.   


Sam swallowed and Dean nudged his shoulder in quiet support. Sam nodded his thanks before taking a breath speaking.   


_ Castiel stood in a field, surrounded by at least a dozen angels, each soberly suited as Raphael had been no matter the vessel he’d chosen. Castiel watched impassively as the angels circled him, each with anger etched on their faces. _ _  
_

_ “Castiel, what have you done?”demanded one, stepping forward. _ _  
_

_ Castiel tilted his head and studied the angel a moment, as if deigning whether it was worth speaking to him. Finally, he spoke in that eerie soft tone. “I have won,” he replied simply. _ _  
_

_ “What?” another spoke up. _ _  
_

_ “Raphael is dead. I am your new leader,” Castiel said. _ _  
_

_ “No, that’s not possible,” said another. _ _  
_

_ “Raphael is the last remaining archangel, and heir to the throne,” the first angel said. _ _  
_

_ “ _ Was _the last remaining archangel,” Castiel corrected. “He is dead and I am your new God.”_ _  
_

_ “Castiel, brother…” _ _  
_

_ Castiel’s eyes narrowed at that, the air around him suddenly electric. “Brother?” he echoed, his voice deceptively calm. “Do true brothers and sisters kill each other in the name of an absent father and his supposed plan?” _ _  
_

_ The angels around Castiel shifted uncomfortably. The first angel, however, held his ground. “With Gabriel dead and Michael and Lucifer locked away, Raphael is the de facto leader of Heaven in our father’s absence, brother. You knew this once. Before—” _ _  
_

_ Castiel’s smile cut the angel off. “Before what, brother? Before I fell?” _ _  
_

_ “Yes.” _ _  
_

_ Castiel frowned and formed a fist. The angel crumpled lifelessly to the ground, charred wings stretched out behind him. The other angels gasped and drew back. _ _  
_

_ “That’s not possible!” _ _  
_

_ “How—” _ _  
_

_ “Only a sword can do that.” _ _  
_

_ “I learned much in my time on Earth,” Castiel replied. “Our father made many mistakes, and trusting in Him got Gabriel killed and Michael locked away with Lucifer. Raphael, like Lucifer, was proud and he paid the price for the ultimate sin.” _ _  
_

_ Castiel smiled and the temperature seemed to drop. “I will not make the same mistakes as our father.” _ _  
_

_ “You cannot kill an archangel and steal our father’s throne, Castiel!” one of the angels declared angrily. He charged, his sword drawn. Castiel side-stepped the first thrust and the angel stumbled before turning back to him.  _ _  
_

_ “Let our father return and tell me so himself,” Castiel retorted. “He is the only one powerful enough to stop me, now.” _ _  
_

_ “You are only one, brother.” _ _  
_

_ “We cannot let you continue.” _ _  
_

_ Castiel nodded. “I did not expect you to follow peacefully. You must be punished for your continued support of Raphael.” _ _  
_

_ “That’s heresy.” _ _  
_

_ The remaining angels swarmed Castiel, and the trench-coated former angel was momentarily swallowed up before a burst of blinding white light drowned out the field. Once the light faded, Castiel stood in the same spot, his coat hardly ruffled and the remaining angels downed around him, each with their wings seared into the grass beneath them. _ _  
_

_ Castiel studied the angels for a long moment before nodding to himself. “It's a new day,” he said.“On Earth and in Heaven. Rejoice." _ _  
_

“Shit,” Dean swore as Sam stopped speaking.   


Bobby ran a hand over his face and Missouri had a hard grip on the back of the chair she was sitting in.   


“You think this has already happened?” Bobby asked at last.   


Sam shrugged as the ache behind his eyes ratcheted up a notch. It felt like nothing so much as a drill in his skull—and he had a point of reference for that. Shutting his eyes and forcefully shoving _those_ memories aside, he pinched the bridge of his nose.   


“Sam?” Dean asked in concern.   


Sam forced his eyes open, not willing to give his brother something else to worry guiltily over when there was nothing he could do about it. Visions had always been rough and it had usually taken a few hours for the after effects to wear off.   


The shakiness and bone-melting exhaustion just made it hard to focus on keeping the memories at bay. Hell was practically bubbling on the edges of his consciousness, burning and freezing the boundaries of his mind simultaneously, demanding his attention and eating at him when he wouldn’t give it.   


“M’fine,” he replied hoarsely, though Dean didn’t look convinced.    


“And the vision?” Bobby prompted, mercifully giving Sam another topic to latch onto so he didn’t have to answer more questions about his well-being. There were more important things to worry about at the moment. He could fall apart later.   


“I don’t know,” he replied at length. “The visions I used to get hadn’t happened yet, but…”   


“Those were related to Yellow Eyes,” Dean finished for him.   


Sam nodded. “Without knowing where this vision came from, there’s no way to know what it means.”    


“Other than Cas going off the deep end,” Bobby muttered.   


Dean tensed at the words and Sam nudged his brother’s shoulder, offering what little support he could. Sam knew his brother, knew each and every stress line on his face and the set of his jaw that meant he was hurting and shoving it aside for the sake of others—for Sam.   


Someone Dean loved like a brother had betrayed him, choosing a demon over him behind his back _, again_ , and had gone after Sam in the process. And that wasn’t even touching the Lisa and Ben issue that Dean refused to talk about. Dean was furious, felt betrayed and scared. He was grieving the loss of a friend—brother-in-arms—as well as lover and surrogate son while worrying about Sam’s fragile mental state. Sam knew he didn’t have much to offer by way of confidence or support, but, for his part, he’d do what he could.   


Dean never seemed to need much from Sam, other than his presence and love, and the recognition sometimes left Sam speechless. Humility tended to eat any words in his throat. And even if it didn’t seem like nearly enough, Sam could give his presence and love; would give them without any reservation. He didn’t think he had much else in him at the moment, but would happily give whatever he had left for his brother’s sake.   


“Yeah,” Dean said tightly. “But that’s hardly news.”   


The ringing in Sam’s ears was growing stronger and he winced, rubbing at his temples.   


“Hey, you okay?” Dean asked.   


Sam opened his mouth to reply, but the ringing chose that moment to turn up and Sam started hearing jumbled words. The ringing was getting louder, was afraid, angry.    


_ CastielangertraitorRaphaelGodarchangeldeathwarpowerfearfearfearangertraitorkillangerfear... _   


Sam cried out and threw his hands to his ears, though it made no difference. He shut his eyes against the noise, curling in on himself but the voices surrounded him. The angels’ words and emotions enveloped him, tried to swallow him whole. Every inch of him crawled with Enochian, vibrations from the words tingling against his skin.   


_ AngerfearangerCastielpowerGodRaphaelangerfearfearfearRaphaelangertraitorCastielkillfear… _   


“—am. Sam. Sammy!”   


Somewhere in the high-pitched haze, a deep voice was seeping through the cracks. It was familiar…He knew that voice.   


“Dean?” he whispered, eyes still shut against the violence assaulting his mind, his soul. Dean. His brother. His best friend. His protector. His partner. The voices receded slightly at the recognition.   


“Yeah, Sam. Right here.” That meant something, Sam was sure of it. “I’m here, kiddo.” There was a touch on his arm. Sam flinched and the touch withdrew, but Sam suddenly craved it again as the voices regained strength.   


There was a strangled whimper and it took a moment for Sam to realize it came from him; it wasn’t part of the ringing shroud that wanted to enclose him, hold him tightly and never let go.   


The touch returned and the voices faded slightly once more. “Sam, hey. What is it? You gotta talk to me, bro.”   


Talk. To Dean. Against the ringing. Dean. He could do that.   


“Voices,” he said, eyes still shut tightly. “The voices are back.”   


“The angels?”   


Sam cringed. “Yes.”   


Sam might have laughed at or even applauded the creative string of curses that followed, but the voices drowned out everything again.   


_ AngerfearpowerCastielfearRaphaelfearpowerdeadkillfearfearpowerGodkillkillangerangerfear... _   


He felt a sudden touch on his mind, a touch that radiated calm and quiet. It seemed to suck the voices and ringing off him like a vacuum, and Sam instinctively reached back. He sought the calm and quiet, the peace the new touch offered.   


_ Sam, _ a new voice said. Sam thought he should know it, but everything was still ringing—just more quietly. _I’m a friend. I want to help. I need you to trust me._   


The calm in the middle of a storm, that’s what this new touch was. And Sam so desperately wanted to trust it. But something held him back, something fragmented that whirled in his mind with the ringing Enochian. Something wouldn’t let him trust what he so desperately wanted to hear.   


“Sammy, hey.”   


Dean.   


“Sam, that’s Missouri. She’s going to help but you have to let her.”   


The image of a small, brown-haired woman with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes holding out a knife popped to mind and he cringed back from the new touch. He’d trusted what he’d desperately wanted to hear before. He couldn’t, he shouldn’t trust _new_ again…   


“Sammy please, trust me. Missouri will help. You gotta stop fighting her.”   


Trust Dean?   


“Yeah, bro. Trust me. I trust her so I need you to trust me.”   


Trust Dean. He could do that.   


Sam reached out toward the new touch again, toward the calm. And everything went quiet.   


\-----   


From his seat at the kitchen table, Dean could easily see Sam sitting cross-legged across from Missouri on the floor of the living room. His brother’s eyes were shut and his hands resting lightly on his knees while Missouri watched with half-lidded eyes, as if she was half in the living room and half on that psychic wavelength thingie with Sam. She’d tried explaining what she was teaching Sam—something about meditation to get his psychic mojo in check—but when she’d started in on the details, Dean’s eyes had glazed over. As long as she was helping Sam get back in working order, Dean was mostly content to observe and let his brother work it out.   


Dean took a sip of the beer Missouri had only let into her house to keep Dean out from under her feet as she worked with Sam. He might have been content to observe, but Dean was determined to be nearby in case Sam had another episode, sticking to his brother like white on glue; for his part, Sam hadn’t commented on his ever-present shadow but Missouri had eventually banished Dean to the next room while she and Sam did their psychic stuff. He was antsy and therefore a distraction, she said.   


Which, Dean realized as he checked his bouncing knee, was probably true. Bobby gave him a long look from across the table and Dean shrugged. The older hunter had taken to keeping Dean company—or out of trouble—when Sam and Missouri were doing…whatever it was that they were doing. He’d been steadily going through Missouri’s collection of occult and psychic-related books; at the sight of Missouri’s books, he’d looked about as happy as Sam did when he entered a library, the geeks.   


Sam’s back stiffened and he made a small noise of distress that Dean tuned into immediately, but Missouri’s quiet, “Relax, Sam. It’s okay, you’re safe” calmed him before Dean could move from his chair.   


“Making me feel useless here,” Dean muttered.   


Bobby snorted around a pull of his own beer. “Probably a good thing, don’t ya think, Dean?”   


“Yeah yeah,” Dean said, waving him off.    


He knew it was a good sign that Missouri was able to help Sam, but his big brother instincts still itched to offer the support instead. He’d been able to do so little for his brother in the wake of the wall coming down, and now he was relegated to unhelpfully drinking beer in the next room. Dean knew this was Sam’s battle to fight, but that didn’t mean Dean shouldn’t be the cavalry when things went sideways—as Winchester luck dictated they would.   


When Sam’d had that vision, Dean had been terrified; he remembered vividly what visions had done to his brother those years before, how they’d worn him down physically and emotionally as they did their best to rip his mind apart bit by bit. But Sam was already worn down, barely holding himself together. He hadn’t needed that extra kick to the nuts—but Sam Winchester was the universe’s punching bag. Dean shut his eyes against the forming headache, mind immediately going to the guest room a week before.   


_ Sam was keening under his breath, clawing at his ears with his eyes screwed shut against the angelic voices bombarding his mind. Dean looked helplessly from his brother to Missouri, every tortured sound from Sam’s lips stabbing at his chest. _ _  
_

_ “Can you do something?” he pleaded. _ _  
_

_ The psychic was already in motion, dragging her chair from the desk and placing it in front of Sam. She had a determined look on her face as she settled herself. She glanced at Dean long enough for him to nod his permission to do whatever she needed to help Sam. _ _  
_

_ She put a hand to his cheek and shut her eyes in concentration. Bobby moved to hover at the edge of the bed, present but not crowding. Dean shared a worried look with the older man before turning back to his brother. After a long moment, Missouri frowned and opened her eyes to look at Dean again. _ _  
_

_ “What is it?” he asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. _ _  
_

_ “He knows I’m there but he’s shying away from my touch,” she replied. _ _  
_

_ “Huh?” _ _  
_

_ “Sam recognizes a foreign touch on his mind, knows that it’s peaceful,” Missouri replied with a slight huff, probably at having to take the time to explain herself. “I need him to touch back so I can help.” _ _  
_

_ “But he won’t.” _ _  
_

_ Missouri shook her head. “No, it’s almost like he’s afraid to.” _ _  
_

_ Dean swallowed. He’d believe that. Considering the number of influences on his life that seemed friendly at first but turned evil and tainted—his best friend from college Brady, Ruby who saved his life after Dean had died, Lucifer who swore never to hurt or lie to him, and now Cas who raised him from Hell—it wasn’t surprising. He needed to know that Missouri wouldn’t turn on him like that. _   


_ Dean clasped Sam’s knee with one hand and put the other on his brother’s back. “Sammy, hey.” Sam calmed a bit at the words; Dean took that as a sign to keep going. “Sam, that’s Missouri. She’s going to help but you have to let her.” _   


_ “No,” Sam murmured quietly, in a tone so broken that Dean was surprised his brother hadn’t shattered on the spot. Dammit, Sam should never be so beaten down by  _ anything _._   


_ “Sammy please, trust me. Missouri will help. You gotta stop fighting her.” _   


_ “Trust Dean?” Sam whispered as if trying to make sense of the words. His eyes were still shut, but ever since they were kids, he and Dean had always had some sense of when the other was near. Right now Dean needed Sam to know that he was close and would protect him. Big brother instincts at their most basic. _ _  
_

_ “Yeah, bro. Trust me. I trust her so I need you to trust me,” Dean said, rubbing his brother’s back. _ _  
_

_ After a moment, the tension drained from Sam’s body and he slumped forward. Missouri yelped in surprise and Dean jumped into motion, grabbing Sam’s shoulders. His chin dropped onto Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s stomach clenched at the memory, but he ignored it. Bobby rounded the bed and together they lay Sam’s unconscious form back. Sam’s head lolled against the pillow, but he looked peaceful. _ _  
_

_ Dean looked over at Missouri. “What happened?” _ _  
_

_ “He reached out to me,” she replied. “I was able to quiet his mind for the moment.” _ _  
_

_ “How long’s that gonna last?” Bobby asked, crossing his arms. _ _  
_

_ Missouri shrugged, looking back at Sam for a moment. “A few hours, maybe.” _ _  
_

_ “Then what?” Dean demanded. “We can’t keep knocking him out.” _ _  
_

_ “I’ve got some ideas on ways to help your brother,” Missouri said. “Once he’s gotten some more rest.” _ _  
_

_ “What kinds of ideas?” _ _  
_

_ “Meditation techniques to help straighten out his gift,” the psychic answered. “By balancing out his powers, he should be better able to filter the voices he’s hearing. I should be able to help keep them at bay until he can do it himself.” _ _  
_

When Sam had woken a few hours later, he and Missouri had immediately started working on her meditation techniques. Once Sam had started improving, they’d moved their sessions downstairs. The longer they worked, the more color Sam regained and the less he cringed or complained of hearing an Enochian cacophony. He was sleeping better at night—Dean was making sure of that—and his small smiles came more often, if still hesitantly. Whatever Missouri was teaching Sam was giving Dean his brother back. Sam was still fragile and liable to crack, but he was _present_.   


Bobby shut the cover on the mile-wide book he’d been reading, pulling Dean from his reverie. A small dust cloud was floating above the book, sparkling in the sunlight coming through the happily curtained window.   


“You seem happy,” Dean commented.   


Bobby quirked an eyebrow. “Boy, Missouri has books on psychics that I didn’t know existed. This is a very impressive library.”   


“Books you didn’t know about?” Dean echoed in surprise. That didn’t seem possible considering the size of Bobby’s personal library and his occult connections.   


“I’ve never had much need to research psychics,” Bobby replied with a shrug. “I know quite a few and take any questions to them.”   


“Ah.” They’d done a little research back when Sam had been having visions, but hadn’t come up with much—visions related to demons hadn’t come up much in any of Bobby’s resources—and things had spiraled pretty quickly, not giving them much time to worry about researching much other than what Sam was seeing.   


Dean’s ears perked up when he heard Sam’s quiet voice from the living room. His brother rarely spoke during his and Missouri’s marathon sessions.   


“Will this—”   


“What, Sam?” Missouri prompted gently, her eyes completely open as she studied her pupil.   


“Will this help with the memories too?” Sam asked hesitantly, his hands gripping at his jeans. Dean knew that tone of voice—the one little Sammy had used when asking for something from either Dad or Dean he was pretty sure he wouldn’t get, like a new pair of cleats for soccer or to be allowed to stay at their latest school one more week because he was working on a project.   


After registering his brother’s tone, Dean’s breath hitched at the question itself. With the decrease in angel voices in his brother’s head, it shouldn’t be a surprise the Hell memories were making a return but it still scared the shit out of Dean to think about. He’d never forget the expanse of sea in his brother’s haunted mind.   


“As much as anything will, honey,” Missouri replied after a moment. Dean could tell she was trying to answer carefully. “By bringing your powers into balance, you’ll have more control over your conscious mind.”   


_ But not the subconscious _ , Dean added silently. Dealing with Hell during waking hours was one thing, but there were no safeguards in sleep. And Sam had never found much peace in sleep before now. It was like Jess’ death all over again, only infinitely worse.   


“With your mind and gift in balance,” Missouri added, “you should have a better chance at keeping the memories at bay.” She shrugged. “Meditation is meant to center your mind and bring peace to your being.”    


Then Missouri snorted. “Of course, a lot of that is New Age hocus pocus, people playing at knowing things they have no idea about. But not all of it.” She smiled and reached out to take Sam’s hand. To Sam’s credit, he only flinched a little, but Missouri ignored it, knowing not to take it personally. She squeezed his giant hand gently with both of hers. “Yes, it should help with the memories too, Sam.”   


Sam opened his mouth, but went rigid before any words came out. Shit. Dean knew that posture. He jumped from his chair and charged into the living room, kneeling next to his brother.   


“Sam?”   


Sam’s brow was pinched with pain but his gaze was vacant as the vision took hold. Dean waved a hand in front of Sam’s face but knew his brother wasn’t seeing him. Sam’s muscles were stiff and trembling and Dean knew they could only wait it out. After a long moment—what seemed like forever—Sam took a shuddering breath and slumped. Dean threw an arm around his brother’s shoulders before he toppled over. With deliberate movements, he scooted Sam back to lean against the edge of the sofa.   


“Sam?”    


Sam groaned and put a shaking hand to the bridge of his nose, eyes shut painfully, but didn’t say anything.   


“Sammy?”   


His brother opened his eyes and met Dean’s eyes. “Dean.” His voice was hoarse, weary.   


“Yeah, right here.”   


“What’d you see, Sam?” Bobby asked from the doorway.   


Sam looked over at him with a frown. Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Bobby, I don’t think now is—”   


But Sam shook his head. “No, Bobby’s right.” Sam swallowed. “What I saw…” His eyes suddenly laser focused in on his brother. “Dean, I think I know how we can stop Cas.”   


Dean’s eyes widened and Bobby let out a breath. “What?”   


“Uh, what I saw. It was in Chicago,” Sam said haltingly, trying to piece together what he’d seen as he spoke. “And some pizza place.” He blinked and looked over at Dean. “Dean, did—”   


“What, Sam?” Dean asked when his brother trailed off.   


“Did Death tell you he was going to reap God?”   


\-----   


_ tbc..._


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Post-6.22] "There is more than one way to destroy a human soul. Isn't that right, Sam?" ****

Castiel found himself drawn to Singer Salvage, feeling an inexplicable urge to check in on the three humans he’d once considered friends. He found himself…curious. After spending so much time in Heaven consolidating his position as the new God by confronting Raphael’s followers and smiting those that remained loyal to the fallen archangel, he desired something simple and familiar. Something human.   


He could easily force the humans to bow and swear their fealty to him, but he didn’t _want_ to. He wanted them to mean it; to admit that they had been wrong to mistrust him and venerate him for the trusted ally he’d been and benevolent Lord he’d become. In time they would come to understand he’d really done this all for them—to make sure their great sacrifices to cage the Morningstar and save the beautiful world his Father had created and abandoned were not in vain. If he didn’t look after the world they’d given so much for, no one would.   


At Bobby Singer’s, Castiel found Dean making extensive repairs to the damaged Impala. He watched as the human spent hours, days, weeks outside from nearly dawn until dusk repairing and shaping the wreckage into something familiar. Castiel puzzled over the army man toy Dean spent nearly an hour cradling in his hands before lodging it back into the rear ashtray and the piece of wood with messily carved SW and DW he carefully ensconced in the trunk alongside the extensive armory.   


Dean seemed constantly tense, his entire body taut like a bowstring pulled back unless Sam was nearby. When his brother emerged from the house to join him in the yard, the tension completed melted from Dean. Sam usually took a seat on the hood or against a wheel of a nearby junked car, offering Dean a bottle of water on the way, and pulled out some book to read.    


The brothers rarely spoke but the glances they spared one another spoke volumes to Castiel. This bond endured through Heaven, Hell, and the ends of the earth was what he _wanted_. He could force the Winchesters to heel, but he knew he’d never be on the receiving end of one of the lingering glances filled with love and concern and understanding that passed between brothers as naturally as breathing.   


Bobby was inside the house doing research on some scheme the three had cooked up to bring him down, Castiel knew. Sam split his time between the library, helping Bobby with research, and the salvage yard, where he sat with Dean. Castiel wasn’t concerned with whatever plot the hunters had cooked up; he was more powerful than anything they’d ever dealt with, so nothing they came up with stood any chance of harming him. He’d let them have their game for now.   


Instead, Castiel watched.   


As Dean and Bobby worked on their respective projects, Castiel found himself drawn to Sam. He could see the imbalance within the youngest hunter; he could see the barely repressed psychic powers straining a violent crimson against a wall in Sam’s mind of his own creation. And the memories of the Cage surged like a black miasma within him, curling around his battered soul. Castiel had touched that very soul, knew the extent of the damage that had been done to it and couldn’t help but be impressed by Sam’s strength and tenacity.   


Despite his initial doubts about the boy with the demon blood, Castiel had come to understand that he was the very sort of human his Father had wanted the angels to love: flawed and tainted, yet always trying to be better, to be _good_ for no other reason than it was right. Yet God abandoned Sam Winchester to an eternity of torture in Hell without Castiel’s intervention.   


One day Sam would come to appreciate what Castiel had done for him in raising him from Perdition. Like his brother. But for now, Castiel would watch and wait.   


Much like the tension eased in Dean when Sam was near, the miasma within Sam retreated when Dean was near, leaving Sam more at ease as well. When he looked closely, Castiel could see that Sam’s fractured soul was stitched together oh-so-carefully with threads of _DeanDeanDean_. It should come as no surprise, then, that his brother’s presence would ease the hurt, even leave room for healing.   


And each time he saw it, Castiel was struck by the _want_ of what the Winchesters shared. He watched as Bobby came into the salvage yard with a few gruff words and both brothers would radiate ease and trust. Bobby Singer was in many ways the father John Winchester had never been and so had earned the love and trust of the brothers. Dean swore Castiel was like a brother to him, but Castiel knew he’d never be the brother Sam was to him, mistakes and all.   


But Castiel was God now; he had no need for something so foolish and insignificant as a human bond. So let the hunters make their plans and lick their wounds. Castiel was still their Lord and His duty went beyond the affections of three humans.   


He left Singer Salvage without the sound of beating wings.   


\-----   


Sore and sweaty after a day’s work on the Impala, Dean walked into the house and went right for the fridge, grabbing a beer before heading into the living room where he found Bobby and Sam surrounded by books.   


“How’s it going?” he asked, flopping down on the couch next to his brother.    


Sam and Bobby were looking for new ways to summon Death since Sam wouldn’t let Dean flatline again. After Sam had revealed what Castiel had told him about his soulless year, he’d made Dean explain how he’d gotten his soul out of the Cage—it was like he didn’t trust Dean when he said the deal was finished or something.    


Then again, Winchesters didn’t have the best luck with deals, so Dean couldn’t really blame him. Sam had been horrified when Dean had told him about how he’d gotten in touch with Tessa and Death those months prior and adamantly refused to let him do that again. There had to be another way and they were going to find it without anyone killing themselves—again—Sam declared.   


“Still nothing, though Bobby’s got a lead on something,” Sam replied without looking up from the book he was engrossed in.   


“Maybe,” Bobby replied from his desk. “Then again, I’ve had a lot of leads that have gone nowhere.”   


Sam shrugged and turned the page. “Better than nothing at this point.”   


Bobby grunted something that could have been either agreement or disagreement.   


Taking a pull of his beer, Dean had to admit, Sam having a project he could geek out over seemed to be helping him. It gave him something to focus on other than Hell and he seemed to be improving a little bit every day. When Dean started remembering Hell, he’d pulled Sam into a hunting frenzy, barely going hours without a job and driving them both to exhaustion so he would have something else to think about. There had been something meditative about hunting for Dean, and Sam was the same way with books.   


Sam still spaced out at times, folding into himself completely for stretches of times until he snapped back to reality. He’d be quiet and shaky for hours afterward. He’d also quit eating meat completely, forcing Dean and Bobby to get creative with the food they prepared, but neither said a word about it.    


And he had nightmares; these weren’t nightmares that left him thrashing or screaming like after Jess. Dean would wake up to find Sam completely still but rigid and whimpering quietly. The broken sounds bothered Dean more than anything because he _knew_ the sound from the Pit. He’d heard it under his own blade countless times and to hear it from his own brother was worse than any torture Alastair had ever conceived of.   


But Sam _was_ doing better. They’d left Missouri’s nearly a month before; the psychic had made Sam swear to meditate every day and call often. Dean often found Sam sitting cross-legged with his eyes shut and breathing even on his bed around midday but he never interrupted him. He also called Missouri almost daily for quick chats about psychic stuff Dean could never understand from Sam’s side of the conversation.   


Sam had also had a couple visions since leaving, but they’d been short and so jumbled that he hadn’t been able to make anything of them. They didn’t know what to make of that so let it lie for the time being.   


In the month since leaving Missouri’s, there’d been no sign of Castiel though there were times Dean could have sworn he was being watched. Dean shrugged it off, figuring that Castiel would find them no matter where they went so they might as well stay where Sam felt safest.   


Dean toed out of his boots and swung his socked feet into Sam’s lap. Sam yelped, startled, and pulled the ancient book he’d been reading out of harm’s way. His nose crinkled as he glared at Dean. “Dude, your feet reek.”   


“Whatever, bitch. I need a footrest after a long day of manly work and you’re the closest thing.”   


Sam glanced over at Bobby for help, but the older hunter threw up his hands. “Don’t look at me, kid. He’s _your_ brother.”   


Sam huffed and Dean grinned. “C’mon Sammy, you’ve been wrapped up in books all day. Take a break.”   


“Dean.” How his brother got so much exasperation into one word, Dean would never know.   


He nudged his brother’s arm with his foot and Sam grimaced. “One night isn’t going to make or break anything and you know it. Cas is going to be out there tomorrow, too.”   


And Dean _almost_ didn’t grimace when Cas’ name left his lips. Considering Sam’s appraising look, his brother had noticed as well. But finally the tension left Sam’s shoulders and he heaved a long-suffering sigh.   


“Jerk,” he muttered as he picked up the television remote.   


Dean nodded to himself as Sam leaned back into the sofa and Bobby closed the book at his desk with a thud. Castiel would find them when he was good and ready for whatever he had in store. Dean tried not to think about that, focusing on his brother and his girl instead.    


Slowly but surely, familiar shapes were emerging from wreckage.    


­ _\- Finis -_

 


End file.
